


the only heaven I'll be sent to

by interropunct



Series: we were born sick, you heard them say [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Depression, F/M, Issues with Prosthetics, M/M, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Misgendering (brief), Non-Binary Bucky Barnes, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Paranoia, Physical Disability, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovery, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4260420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interropunct/pseuds/interropunct
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Bucky both end up in the 21st century. But neither made the journey unscathed. Now they’re together again with new wounds and old misunderstandings between them. Somehow they have to figure it all out.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>He made his way to New York, as if somehow it would be the same as the city in his memories. But the buildings had changed and the people looked different than they once did; the city air stank in new ways. Still he would look down certain alleyways and the sounds would fade until he could only hear a strangely deep voice calling his name. And it was hard, but worse was that he could hear his own voice calling out in reply, hear the things he would have said in a cadence that was no longer his. There was a ghost in these streets and he was so close he could almost reach out, almost speak that dead language. But it still eluded him. He didn’t stay in New York long.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That Deathless Death

After the Battle of New York as people are calling it, Steve told Director Fury he needed some time to himself. He’d only just woken up and now there was this, aliens and gods and the organization he was working for willing to bomb New York. He needed to be able to think, to start sorting it all out. So he got a motorcycle and filled a backpack with clothes and cash and took off. He didn’t know where he was going yet but he had this vague idea that he wanted to see what the world was like in the 21st century.

He quickly realized how stupid that idea was. He didn’t know what this stretch of highway had looked like in his day, couldn’t chart the differences because most of the places in the U.S. he hadn’t been to before. Almost unconsciously he found himself on a kind of USO reunion tour, going to the same cities he’d been to back when he was a dancing monkey because at least then he had something to compare it to. He wasn’t sure though, what he was looking for. Was he trying to find similarities or differences? Was he happy that some of the venues he’d sold war bonds in were still around, still preserved in between modern glass and concrete? Or was he happier to see some of the theaters replaced by parks and museums and giant towering libraries that held more books than he could wrap his head around?

In the end he got tired of it. Somewhere around St. Louis he felt like he’d seen everything he was going to see on his little motorbike tour of the U.S.A.. So he just stayed in his hotel room, watched tv like he had every night, read the history debriefs SHIELD had given him on his tablet. There was so much to catch up on, not just events and people and technology but culture and social movements and changes. He felt like he was drowning in it, like he could read and read and watch and see and talk and still it wouldn’t matter because he’d missed it. He’d missed it. And he was never going to get back that time he’d lost.

Eventually he set everything aside, turned off the tv and closed the blinds. He thought about everyone whose lives he’d missed, about the Commandos and Peggy and Bucky’s sisters and their neighbors back home and everyone he’d ever known. And then he thought about Bucky, who hadn’t even gotten a chance to live. Steve had been so sure, when he’d put the plane in the water that at least he’d be with Bucky again. But instead he’d woken up here.

He spent a few days like that, just thinking and remembering and grieving. He was interrupted by his phone ringing on the third day.

“Rogers?” a voice asked on the other end.

“Speaking.”

“I’ve given you a month, Rogers. I didn’t really expect you to take this long.” Then Steve placed the voice; it was Director Fury.

“Do you need me to come in, sir? Has there been another attack? Is Loki-” his heart was already racing and adrenaline was starting to flood through him when Fury cut him off.

“No, nothing urgently needs your attention. But you’re a SHIELD agent, Rogers, have been since you woke up. And I don’t usually let my agents go AWOL for over a month. I’ve got an intelligence agency to run here and I need every agent I can get. That includes you.”

“Frankly, I haven’t decided if I’m ready to be one of your agents, Director.” Steve said, thinking about the bomb Stark had redirected. Fury snorted.

“You’re a soldier, Captain. Soldiers don’t retire that easy. Report to SHIELD headquarters in D.C. in two days.” Steve thought about politely telling Director Fury to fuck off. He thought about staying in his hotel room for another day, another week. He thought about just never leaving.

“Give me a week.” he said, “and I still haven’t decided if I’m coming back.” Fury didn’t dignify that with anything but the click of the line going dead.

Steve packed his meager things and looked up directions to D.C. on his phone. He was telling the truth, he didn’t know if he was going back. But he did know there was someone he needed to talk to in D.C.

He arrived in the city early Saturday morning. The home technically didn’t open for visitors for another half hour but he saw people moving around inside and he couldn’t stand to wait anymore. He knew he was late.

A nurse walked him down the hall toward Peggy’s room and warned him that although he was on the list of authorized visitors, Peggy might not know him. But she said he’d come at a good time, Peggy was usually the most with it just after breakfast.

And she was. When Steve walked in her eyes were on him immediately, bright and sharp and beautiful as they’d been the last time he’d seen them. She smiled and Steve had thought he was never going to see that again.

“Steve.”

“P-peggy.” he said, sitting in a chair beside her bed as the nurse left them alone. Suddenly the time he’d spent away trying to ‘find himself’ seemed ridiculous; a huge part of himself was sitting right here. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come, I-”

“It’s fine Steve. I expected you would need some time to adjust. It doesn’t matter now.”

And it didn’t. Nothing mattered but Peggy, right here, still here. He had been mourning her like she was gone but she was right here.

They fell to talking. It was awkward at first. Peggy hadn’t seen Steve in over 70 years; Steve had seen her less than two months ago. They talked about recent events, about the Battle of New York, about SHIELD. Apparently Peggy technically no longer had clearance to know about most things SHIELD was doing, but she had a niece who fed her information.

“How are you doing?” she asked him eventually. “Since the battle? Since waking up I suppose? I hate to be the one to tell you, but Steve, you look terrible.”

He’d shaved and gotten a haircut before he’d come to see her. But he knew what she meant. He imagined he looked at least half as crappy as he felt, to someone who was looking carefully.

“I’m- not so great.” And then it was spilling out of him. “Bucky’s gone, Peggy. Bucky’s gone and for me it only just happened. It just happened. And I thought I was going to die, but instead I woke up in the future and everything’s different and everyone’s gone. And Bucky didn’t get to see it. He didn’t get to grow old like you or sleep through the time like I did; he just died and I don’t know what to do. I don’t-“ The words caught in his throat. Peggy gently leaned over and clasped his hand in her frail one.

“Now, Steve. Listen to me. It’s not the same, but, well, I lost someone once. A long time ago.” Steve shook his head. He knew who she meant and he didn’t want to hear this.

“Peggy, no, pl-“

“No, now listen. I lost someone. And I’ve lost plenty of people since. But I always remember that first one. And it was hard. It was hard to keep going for a while, hard to care about anything but how much I’d lost. But here’s the trick, Steve. Listen: you have to find something else. Something that matters more than that person, more than your loss or your emotions or yourself. You have to find something so important that you’ll keep going just for that. And then you have to become that thing, have to lose yourself in it. And eventually it will lead you to other things, other people who will matter to you too. People who will remind you why you bother caring at all. You’ll find new people, and you’ll lose them too eventually, but you’ll always have that one thing that matters more than anything else, which you’ll always be able to come back to. For me, that thing was SHIELD.”

“I’ve read about it. You helped found it.”

“I did. And it was the best thing I ever did. I made something that mattered. You can do that too. Find something that matters, or make something new to care about, you just have to care about something. That’s the trick.”

“You know, I’ve heard about this guy who’s pretty into America. I think he’s a commander or something. Maybe he could help me.” Peggy laughed.

“I should have known. You have practice caring about things bigger than yourself.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

Peggy started to drift and Steve promised to visit again very soon.

Neither of them joked about him being late.

Steve drove across the city and left his bike in front of a large imposing building. The Triskelion. The Director was right after all, Steve was a soldier. Steve was goddamn Captain America. And he was looking for something to fight for.

* * *

Early on there were complications with the asset’s appearance. Seeing his reflection seemed to trigger memories more regularly than his handlers would like and necessitated more frequent wiping. The techs stopped shaving him to combat this, but they found in the field the asset would scratch and pull at his beard until his face was bloody but bare. Then they tried letting his hair grow out. This seemed to work well. The asset appeared interested but not disturbed by his reflection after that.

Once, just after being wiped, when he was still weak and compliant, the asset had caught sight of himself in the high wings of the metal of the chair.

“Who is she?” he’d asked. The techs had looked at each other. He didn’t usually speak so soon after wiping.

“What?” one of the newer technicians asked. The asset pointed at his reflection and repeated the question. “That’s you.” the technician said. The asset frowned and the guards along the walls tensed, everyone took a step back.

“She’s me.” he said almost to himself, as far as the head technician was concerned that was enough.

“He shouldn’t be this aware so quickly. Clearly the wipe didn’t take. Repeat the procedure and up the voltage by 25 percent.” he said and the other technicians jumped into action.

The asset placidly took the mouth guard but at the last moment before the procedure started turned to make eye contact with his reflection in the metal. Then his eyes squeezed shut in pain and there was only screaming.

After that it was decided that the asset would wear a mask. It was easier that way.

* * *

Steve wasn’t sleeping well. Half the time he had nightmares. A scream and a train roaring in his ears. A static voice over the radio and the crack of ice as the plane hit. Or even older dreams of waking up with weak lungs and a shoddy heart and no one sleeping in the bed beside him. They were terrible but he could deal with them, could stare at the ceiling until the dreams faded.

Worse were the other half of the nights when he woke up in the early hours of the morning, heart pounding and breath coming in tiny panicked gasps. His mind would be foggy with fear but sharp would be the thought that he’d done it again, he’d slept another 70 years and everyone was dead. He’d hug his knees and stare at the date on his phone until he could breathe again. But the thought would stay with him. He wanted to talk to someone but it was the middle of the night; no one would pick up the phone, or they would because they thought it was a matter of national security.

So he’d sit next to the window. He’d look out every now and again at the night bright city and remind himself that nothing had changed from yesterday. And he would read. He read a lot these days, more than he ever had back home. Histories and biographies at first, now other things too. Genre fiction and personal blogs and anything that caught his eye. He had been on a sexuality kick recently, reading everything he could get his hands on.

It turned out, Steve Rogers was queer. It was funny how everything had changed but he could still say that. It didn’t mean the same thing now. It didn’t mean he loved men, it meant he was not, or not just, attracted to people of a different gender than him. There were all kinds of labels now, ways of categorizing emotions and desires but even with all the options he didn’t think any of them perfectly fit him. He had been attracted to people of different genders, he was bisexual. He had only been attracted to people after forming an emotional attachment, he was demisexual. He had been in love with more than one person at once, he was polyamorous. They were all useful to think about, to help him categorize his feelings, but no one term seemed to describe him perfectly. But queer just meant you were one of those things and of that Steve felt certain.

It was still strange to be able to call himself queer without shame. He’d read a lot by queer authors writing about their lives and their struggles, about God and society. And he had been convinced that what he’d learned growing up was wrong. But that didn’t make it easy to believe, to sincerely feel. He still, if he let himself, felt guilty for his feelings. But he was getting over it.

He read a lot about people like Bucky too. People whose gender was more complicated than everyone tried to tell them it was supposed to be. He wished that Bucky could have lived to see a world where trans people could come together and make a community for themselves. Steve often wished Bucky could have gotten to see life in the 21st century.

He visited Peggy frequently. They talked about their shared memories most often, about the war and the Commandos and all the people who were gone now. But they talked sometimes about their lives apart too. Steve would tell her about growing up with Bucky, about all the little adventures they made for themselves long before they were legends. And she would tell him about her life after the war, about her husband and her children and about founding SHIELD. But the closer her stories got to present day the more difficulty she had remembering them. And she didn’t usually remember Steve’s stories from one visit to the next. He didn’t mind though. It was just nice to talk to someone who knew him.

There weren’t very many people in his life besides Peggy and the people he worked with. He tried to go out sometimes, tried to meet people. But he was a national icon now, a historical figure that jumped out of the history books and he couldn’t stand the awed look in people’s eyes as they realized they were talking to Captain America. And at work he couldn’t recapture the same camaraderie he had with the Commandos. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Natasha came close though. She was mocking, irreverent and overly-familiar. When he got out of debriefing after a long or a difficult mission she tended to follow him around, tail him to his apartment and let herself in. He could never decide if this was because she didn’t want to be alone herself or because she worried about him being alone. One time he turned around from where he was chopping vegetables for a stir fry to find her sitting on his breakfast bar. He didn’t even jump.

“Get your ass off my counter. Where I eat.”

“Oh sorry, here I was assuming you use a plate and don’t just eat off the countertop like a fucking animal.” she said but she hopped down anyway.

“What are you doing here, Natasha?” he asked although she had yet to give him a straight answer to that question. He lived in hope though. She ignored him.

“I saw a really hot girl in your hallway.”

“Good for you?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“I was just thinking. You guys would probably have hot kids. You should ask her out.”

“I don’t generally date people based on the attractiveness of our theoretical children.”

“You don’t generally date people, period.” she said, eyes challenging. And she was right. But Steve didn’t want to talk about that with anyone, not even Natasha. A way to distract her occurred to him and before he could think it through he was speaking.

“What makes you think I’m interested in women anyway?” he said. Natasha paused. She hadn’t been moving before but now she somehow projected an extra bit of stillness.

“You and Agent Carter are pretty much legendary, Cap.” she said after a moment. “But I suppose those sorts of things can get exaggerated.”

“We didn’t actually have our first date in front of the burning remains of a Hydra facility if that’s what you’re asking. That just happens in the movies.”

They moved on to talking about their favorite hilarious Captain America films and Natasha didn’t steer the conversation back around. But he knew she hadn’t forgotten. Nothing got past Natasha.

He was proved right a few weeks later. They had stopped at a cafe on the way to his apartment and were sitting outside sharing a muffin. Suddenly Natasha looked him in the eye, face serious.

“Captain, be alert to imminent mission if you’re mission-ready.” she said. He’d thought she’d taken out her ear piece but apparently not. He looked around sharply for any sign of danger.

“What’s the mission?” he asked, glad he still had his shield with him.

“Mission objective: fuck that hot guy buying flowers across the street.” she said, before breaking into a small smile and waggling her eyebrows. Steve glanced over despite his better judgement. There was a slight man with tattoos across his arms eyeing bouquets outside the florists.

“Don’t you think the fact that he’s buying flowers implies that he’s taken?” Steve said, knowing full well that Natasha will take that as a ‘yes’ on the ‘does Steve fuck guys’ question.

“He could have a sick relative. Or you could convince him you deserve the flowers more than his girlfriend.”

“I’d like to think Captain America is above fostering adultery. Besides,” he said because he didn’t want this to become something she’d tease him about left and right, in front of people. “I don’t fuck men.” It was simpler than saying, ‘I’m still in love with a dead man and a 90-year-old woman,’ ‘I don’t know who I want to fuck’ or ‘I don’t know if I want to fuck anyone without knowing them first.’

“Too afraid of what the tabloids will say?” she asked. “Afraid he’ll call you Captain during sex? Afraid you’ll have to stand on a float at the next Pride parade?” He didn’t know what to say to that so he just smiled cryptically and drank his coffee. Eventually Natasha rolled her eyes and started talking about something else.

He didn’t really think about it until later. But he supposed he’d come out in a way. It wasn’t as terrifying as he’d thought it would be. He’d thought about coming out publicly. He knew it was important to a lot of people, that it would help other queer people to know he was like them. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was private. No one’s business but his own. For now, he wanted that scrap of himself to belong to Steve Rogers, not Captain America.

* * *

After the helicarriers, he disappeared. He knew how to go unseen. His last two missions had been high-profile, the targets’ deaths more important than any publicity. But that wasn’t the norm. He was more used to the shadows, to moving in darkness and avoiding sight. It was different now though. Before he’d been a cog in a great machine, the tool of more powerful men. Now there was no one and nothing but himself. He didn’t have access to the same supplies and contacts he’d had for missions in the past. He still used the safe houses he knew but he wasn’t the only one seeking shelter in Hydra safehouses after the fall of the Triskelion. After the third time he had to kill a small band of Hydra agents already occupying a safe house he decided not to use them anymore.

He mostly camped out in abandoned buildings after that, stuck to the cities because he could be just another addict with no place to stay. It was easy to blend in. He had to be careful because he knew even the smallest mistake would alert Hydra to his presence. He’d dug out three trackers the first night, but he worried about the ones he couldn’t get to, the ones he was sure were buried deep in the arm’s circuitry or at the base of his neck just above the spine where he couldn’t really just dig a knife in and hope to hit it. He moved often and kept to himself and otherwise spent his time regrouping, getting food for himself, stealing when he needed to.

He slept as much as he could because in his dreams there were people, places that seemed familiar. Hydra had left him with lots of knowledge, lots of programming but no real memories. But they were coming back to him now. He saw a blond man on the street one day and suddenly a name was on the tip of his tongue, just there but gone the next second when he saw the man’s dark green eyes. For a long time it was just flashes, nothing made sense, nothing was connected. Eventually the flashes turned into scenes. He was starting to really remember.

He remembered the man from the helicarrier first. He remembered his face: small and childlike, older but still with sunken cheeks, older still with broad jaw and blue helmet matching blue eyes. Then he remembered his name: Steve. For awhile it was like watching a movie every time he closed his eyes: Steve Rogers, before and after. Then he began to remember everyone else: the Commandos, Peggy, their neighbor who made Steve sandwiches when he was sick and Bucky had to work. His family he remembered later and less clearly. He remembered himself least of all. Eventually he could tell you what he and Steve did nearly every day after school, but couldn’t say what had happened in his classes at school or when he was home alone without Steve. And when he did remember it was like they were happening to somebody else. He could remember the sights and sensations but never the feelings associated with them. He couldn’t remember being Bucky Barnes.

But he remembered Steve calling him Bucky and if he thought of himself as Bucky it felt right somehow. But for every memory of being called Bucky he remembered at least one agent or technician just calling him ‘the asset’ so perhaps that was okay too. He didn’t want to be the asset but he knew that he was. He knew that the harsh, cold, bloody memories were his just as much as the older, happier ones were.

He wrote it all down, every name, every place, or thought he could remember. Some of it he knew would be useful like the names and descriptions of Hydra higher ups. Some of it didn’t matter to anyone but him, like the way Dum Dum looked smoking his last cigarette of the pack. Some of it didn’t even matter to him, like the memory of removing his mask in a safehouse in Berlin and staring at his reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror until the extraction team reached him. He couldn’t remember what he’d been thinking but he knew his mask had been harder to remove after that.

He knew it was dangerous to write it down but he didn’t trust himself to keep it straight in his head when everything had come back out of order. Sometimes he thought he remembered coming home from a Hydra mission where he killed a CIA operative’s mistress to find Steve sick with scarlet fever and he’d have to remind himself that those things happened decades apart. So he kept paper handy at all times so he could write down what he remembered and then he’d try to arrange the memories in chronological order as best he could manage. He kept them in a file taped to his stomach because he couldn’t think of anywhere secure enough to stash them.

Remembering shifted his goals. He no longer wanted to just avoid capture, avoid the chair and the inevitable loss of everything he’d just regained. He wanted more. He wanted back everything he’d lost. He wanted to be Bucky Barnes again.

He made his way to New York, as if somehow it would be the same as the city in his memories. But the buildings had changed and the people looked different than they once did; the city air stank in new ways. Still he would look down certain alleyways and the sounds would fade until he could only hear a strangely deep voice calling his name. And it was hard, but worse was that he could hear his own voice calling out in reply, hear the things he would have said in a cadence that was no longer his. There was a ghost in these streets and he was so close he could almost reach out, almost speak that dead language. But it still eluded him. He didn’t stay in New York long.

By the most circuitous route he could manage he got to D.C.. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Unlike New York the streets here were not familiar; the only familiar parts of this city were the seedy underbelly ruled by an organization that was now half-dead. But he was looking for something nonetheless. Looking for someone. He found him on the side of a building, a poster twelve feet tall advertising the Smithsonian Exhibit, Steve Rogers’ face against a blue background and, along the bottom, stylized versions of the Commandos. In the middle was a man in a blue jacket, with dark hair and bright eyes. That was who he was looking for.

He slipped into the exhibit when there were enough people to blend in but few enough that they weren’t likely to get hurt if a fight erupted. There were few exits and no clear lines of sight so an ambush was more than possible. He kept alert but made his movement appear loose so no one gave him a second glance. He took his time, circling back so he didn’t appear to look too long at any one thing, frowning at the words, the black and white photographs of a man he remembered in full technicolor. The future it seemed had preserved the image of Steve but concerned itself more with the story of Captain America, the country’s greatest soldier. He didn’t care about that, didn’t care about a costume or acts of bravery, he cared about the man who had all but disappeared from the annals of history.

So he took it with a grain of salt when he turned to the other people the exhibit touched on. If they had got Steve so wrong, who’s to say what they did to Peggy, to the Commandos, to him? He had thought he would feel something looking at his own life writ large, but there was nothing, no recognition. He was not that man. He drifted through the rest of the exhibit, looking for something that felt like him. He saved the screening room for last because it was the least defensible. It was stupid, really, to go in, to make himself so vulnerable to attack, for what? The chance at finding himself? He shouldn’t do it but he did. If there was a scrap of Bucky Barnes left in this place he would find it.

And he did. It was just a few seconds, a smiling Steve, and Bucky laughing as he talked. There. There was someone he knew, standing beside the man he remembered. Something existed in the space between them that he could see, could feel. That was Bucky Barnes, the man standing next to Steve Rogers.

That was it. He should have seen it sooner. If he wanted to be Bucky he had to put himself next to Steve. To find Bucky he had to find Steve.

* * *

Steve realized pretty quickly that Hydra’s influence wasn’t the only thing keeping Bucky a ghost for the last 50 years. Natasha told him over and over that without the resources of an organization like SHIELD the only way they would find Bucky is if he let himself get found. After a while of no word, not even a whisper, Steve began to believe her. But that didn’t mean he could stop looking because when Bucky came back to himself enough to realize what was happening he had to know that Steve had been trying to find him, to help him, the whole time.

And besides, following Bucky’s trail, sometimes decades old, was a good way to track down old (or not-so-old) Hydra bases. The larger or more active bases he turned over to the CIA to deal with. The smaller bases he, Sam and Natasha raided themselves. There were a few incidents with the Avengers that called him back to New York. Sam declined to come back, promising to keep looking while Steve and Natasha were occupied elsewhere. As soon as the action was finished Steve was back across the world, following the trail of a 90 year old ghost. Eventually, Sam finally called it quits.

“Temporarily, man. I need a break. I need to remind my family I’m alive and sleep in the same bed for a few days on end.” he said. And Steve didn’t blame him. He was feeling worn out too. Steve rented a hotel room. Sam hadn’t said anything but Steve worried that being in each other’s pockets 24/7 was beginning to grate. Sam needed a break from Steve as much as he needed a break from the search. So Steve got a hotel room and spent the week walking the city, mentally comparing it to every city he’d scoured over the last nine months. He’d barely even lived in this city, just shuttled from his apartment to SHIELD and back. Apart from what was left of the wreckage of the Triskelion there was nothing here that felt like the city he’d lived in, nothing to remind him of that part of his life.

He snuck past the barriers and guards one night to see the wreckage up close. Most of the cleanup had focused on the Potomac and the helicarriers. The remains of the building were mostly still there. It was dark outside the perimeter of lights but Steve could see in the dark pretty well these days. That was where Bucky found him.

“Breaking into a secure site at night to look at a pile of rubble. Hardly seems fitting for Captain America,” a voice said behind him.

Steve spun around. In the darkness Bucky was just a shadow among shadows. But Steve knew that voice.

“Sounds just like the kind of stupid shit Steve Rogers would get up to though.” the voice said again.

He sounded like himself, not distant and confused the way he’d been last time Steve had heard him.

“Bucky-“

“What are you doing here, Steve?”

“I-“ Steve wanted to say he didn’t know, that he’d come here on a whim. But that wasn’t quite true. “This was the first place I’d started to think of as home in a long time.” he said. He couldn’t tell if Bucky nodded.

“You’ll need to find yourself a new place to settle down, I don’t think the cleanup crews would appreciate you squatting here.”

“I’m not going to stop looking for you, Buck.”

“What’re you looking for? I’m right here.” he said, lifting his hands up from his sides. Steve’s heart thudded painfully in his chest.

“Does that mean you’ll come back with me?” he asked.

“Yeah, Steve. I’m tired of running.” Cautiously Steve picked his way over the rubble until he was right in front of Bucky. His hair was longer than the last time Steve had seen him. His jeans and hoodie looked to be two sizes two big for him.

“Okay,” Steve said, “then let’s go home.” He didn’t know where that was yet but with Bucky there he was sure they could find something.


	2. Fresh Poison Each Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for issues related to forced prosthetics. Contact me for more detailed explanation.

Living with Steve was different. Seeing his face every day, hearing his voice was like living in the memory except he felt the warmth, the soothing presence of Steve all around him. But it also reminded him of how much had changed. He was not the man Steve knew: he was quiet where Bucky had been loud, he was awkward where Bucky had been charming, he was sharp where Bucky had been soft around the edges. He pretended sometimes. He knew what Bucky had been like, could remember enough to play at saying the right thing. He knew Steve could tell it wasn’t quite real and Bucky watched him, waiting for the inevitable disappointment and resentment to creep into Steve’s eyes but it never did. He was just… there, talking when Bucky couldn’t, helping him when Bucky couldn’t get out of bed for the weight of his failures pressing down on him.

And Bucky soaked it up for the most part, loved being near this source of endless patience and kindness but sometimes it grated. What had Bucky done to deserve this? Shared a face with a man long dead? Did Steve care so little for the lives of innocents that he would feed and clothe a mass murderer? On those days he pushed Steve away, told him to fuck off, that Bucky didn’t need him. He would walk the streets until the crowds pressed in on him and he felt like he was drowning in the weakness of their unsuspecting trust. They should have known, just by looking at him to avoid him. But instead he got to share space with these people who not so long ago could have been his targets. It made him sick and weary and he would find an empty roof or an abandoned building to sleep in for the night until he stopped feeling so much like the killer he was. Then the thought of Steve would draw him back home.

He knew he was still missing pieces. There were lots of years he didn’t remember and he couldn’t be sure if it was because he’d been in cryo then or because he hadn’t remembered yet. Perhaps he would never be sure. But even from before the fall there were gaps. The mind was not a perfect machine and it healed slowly, in jumps and starts. Memories were tricky. When she came back to him, he was reading with Steve and it was such a shock that he blurted it out to him.

“I left a girl behind.”

“What?” Steve asked, looking up from his book.

“When I went off to war I left a woman behind.”

“Well you had sisters if that’s what you mean.” But Bucky was already shaking his head.

“No, I remembered them, this is someone new. I remember packing up her stuff the last night before I left for basic. We lived together I think? But no, ‘cause you and I lived together… She stayed with us sometimes though because she had her stuff at our place. I remember packing up her things. I…” This memory was different than most. Usually he got the senses but not the feelings but this time he could barely see the pearls laying in the box, he was too busy feeling the ache of letting her go.

“Bucky.” Steve looked like he was trying not to betray anything on his face, which of course told Bucky everything. “Those didn’t belong to someone else. Those were yours.”

“No,” he said, but even as he said it he wasn’t sure, “That’s not…”

“Yeah Buck, they were yours. It’s just, you were a girl sometimes so you had dresses and jewelry and makeup. And the last night before you left you packed up all that stuff because you couldn’t bring it with you to basic.”

“I was a girl sometimes.” It was half question, half statement. He tried to remember but it didn’t work like that. A smell or a sound could jog his memory but he couldn’t trigger it at will or follow memories back.

“Yeah, there are all kinds of terms for people who feel that way now. I could give you some books I’ve read on it if you wanted.” But Bucky had stopped listening, he was too busy writing on a little notepad in a careful scrawl “Packing up girl things, before basic” and stuffing it in his hoodie pocket. He didn’t know what it meant yet but he knew he didn’t want to forget it.

 

* * *

 

Steve tried to be honest. It had been hard for awhile, honest spies were hard to come by. But he wasn’t a spy anymore and he’d never really made a very good one. So Steve tried to be honest. And if he was honest, he’d thought getting Bucky back would make everything alright.

For so long he’d felt lost, like part of himself was still asleep under the ice somewhere, as if he was some other man walking around in Steve Rogers’ shoes. And he’d thrown himself into the job, into trying to make the world a better place because nothing mattered as much as that, certainly not his own problems. But then he found out Bucky was alive and suddenly there was something that mattered more than the job, more than himself, more than anything. Finding and helping Bucky was the number one priority and he could push everything else aside for awhile. If it hadn’t been for Sam, Steve thought he might have fallen into a different kind of problem, the kind where he was so busy tracking Bucky he didn’t stop to eat or sleep or breathe. But Sam’s limits mattered even if his own didn’t. So he walked a careful line, so focused that he didn’t matter, but not so focused that Sam’s well-being stopped mattering. And that was how he’d searched, and for awhile he’d felt like Steve again, felt like a man on a mission, a man with a plan maybe.

Then Bucky came to him and it was exactly what Steve had wanted for so many years. Steve had missed Bucky since 1944 and the ache had never really dulled. But now he had him back and they could be Bucky and Steve again. Except, of course, Bucky wasn’t quite himself yet. He was still remembering things, still clawing himself back from his brainwashing and Steve understood that. Bucky was unwell. But Steve could help. Steve could be there for him, could support him and help him remember who he was. Steve could be exactly what Bucky needed.

But the thing was, being what Bucky needed was hard. Bucky’s personality was always in fluctuation. Sometimes he’d speak and act just like he had back in Brooklyn, with just a hint of hesitation that betrayed the actions as less than natural. Sometimes he’d seem more like he had during the war, still confident and charming but with a little glint in his eye and a set to his jaw that said he wasn’t totally alright. And then some days he would be someone else entirely, someone Steve didn’t know, who was bitingly sarcastic and aggressively honest. He was someone Steve wanted to protect because no one else ever had.

But Bucky wouldn’t let himself be protected. He was paranoid and skittish, but seemed to force himself outside at least once a day. He read a lot, sitting beside Steve absolutely still until he had to turn the page. And there wasn’t the quiet feeling of comfort there used to be sitting beside Bucky in their old apartment-it just felt empty. Bucky wasn’t himself and Steve didn’t know how to fix it.

It began to weigh on him, his failure to help Bucky. He found himself lying in bed in the mornings, staring at the ceiling and wondering if it was worth getting up because it’s not like he was actually doing anything worthwhile that day. Bucky would scour the apartment for bugs and hidden compartments and hidden weapons and who knew what else and Steve would be frozen watching him, words of comfort and calming coming out of his mouth while the rest of him just panicked because Bucky was scared and he didn’t know how to fix it. And night would fall and everything would feel hopeless. Rather than helping, Steve was just dragging Bucky down with him and soon they were both going to drown. The thought scared Steve but he also almost wanted it, he wanted something to happen, wanted this to be over.

He tried to keep busy. Sam had finally accepted the position he’d been offered with the Avengers and so he lived in New York too now. Together he and Sam went back to D.C. every weekend: Sam to visit his family, Steve to visit Peggy. And they still had their runs together each morning, plus bi-weekly lunches around the city because Sam insisted that staying cooped up in the apartment was bad for Steve. And then there were meetings and training with the Avengers at least twice a week. But that still left a lot of days with nothing to do, where Steve would come back from his morning run to an empty apartment because Bucky was out doing whatever it was he did. Steve wanted to know, wanted to support Bucky however he could but he desperately didn’t want to push, didn’t want to insinuate that he didn’t trust Bucky alone in the city. So he didn’t ask. Instead he’d just come in to the quiet apartment and get back into bed for a few hours. Not to sleep, just to lie there and let the hours pass as his mind stuttered and stalled and yearned for something he couldn’t define. When his thoughts turned dark or his worries started to make his heart pound he’d get up and go into the room he called his office. It did have a small desk in one corner, but it also had a bench and free weights and a special reinforced punching bag from Tony that he only had to replace every two weeks or so. And then he would push himself until he actually had a reason to feel so exhausted, until his brain would quiet down a little bit. By then Bucky was typically back, reading or watching tv. At first Bucky had watched a lot of news, now he’d branched into anything and everything but Steve noticed that he never seemed to watch the same thing twice in a row or really show any interest in the characters. It seemed more like a kind of research than a hobby but who was Steve to judge? He didn’t really have any hobbies either, but he kept himself busy.

It kept getting worse though, Steve kept getting worse and Bucky didn’t get better. Steve missed his friend, even with Bucky in the same room. But even as he missed the way things had been, Steve could feel himself falling for Bucky all over again. The way he tapped his fingers to his mouth before he spoke. He’d never done that before. The way he could make a blank stare into a joke in the right context. The way his breathing was always steady even through the closed door at night when Steve couldn’t sleep. He looked the same and some days just the sight of his face would make Steve want to reach out and touch, want to kiss and hold him as much as he had ever wanted to. But it wasn’t only the resemblance that Steve loved. There was something about Bucky now that made him think of Peggy during the war: fierce and a little withdrawn but if you looked at just the right angle it was easy to see how much they needed someone. When Steve was around Bucky he felt more like himself than he had in years, and he couldn’t help but fall in love with that feeling.

 

* * *

 

Bucky knew Steve’s friends peripherally. He knew enough to know they probably weren’t Hydra and that Steve was safe in their presence. Sam came around fairly often and Bucky liked him, liked the way Steve relaxed when Sam was around. The first time Sam had come over Bucky had given him a pat down, over Steve’s protests. Sam had said it was alright though.

“Want to check my teeth for cyanide capsules?” he’d asked when Bucky finished. “We haven’t met but I’ve heard a lot about you. Anything I can do to help?” And he’d held out his hand as if half the things he heard hadn’t been about the dozens of murders Bucky had been responsible for.

Yeah, he liked Sam. But Sam saw everything, every suppressed flinch and flash of directionless anger that made him grind his teeth. He was always watching and would occasionally chime in with something about himself. Like, “I hate driving. Still don’t have a car because I was always so paranoid about IEDs. But I’m working on driving a motorcycle, so that’s something.” An awkward silence would stretch after these details, Steve and Sam both waiting for Bucky’s response. But there was nothing to say. Sam was a soldier returning from war, Bucky was…not.

He never really met the other Avengers, just heard about them from Steve. He knew when Thor was in their realm. He knew about Banner’s latest breakthrough that he had told Steve about in great detail. He knew when Colonel Rhodes and Stark nearly caused a pile-up on 1st Ave flying maneuvers. And he knew that Romanoff was still out of the country whenever she wasn’t specifically needed for a crisis, still ‘figuring herself out’ as Steve described it.

Bucky heard the steps on the stairs first, quiet but not silent, too light to be Steve. Their apartment was on the top floor so there was no chance someone was just passing by on their way to somewhere else. He tensed, ready to drop his book and grab the knife strapped to his forearm in a second. No knock just the tell tale scrape of something in the lock. Not keys, Bucky changed the locks every few days and kept careful track of the spares. He was caught for a split second, the sudden realization that his worst fears were happening colliding with every single time Steve had told him there was nothing to worry about, no one was coming for them. Fight and flight both kicked in at once and he froze with his hands on his knives. He’d prepared for this, was always on guard for it but now that the moment was upon him he didn’t know what to do, the panic clouding his mind the way it never had before. Then the knob started to turn and he reacted through the haze. He got the intruder pressed against the door jam with a knife to their throat before the door could swing all the way open. But the intruder was fast because there was already a hand between the knife and their throat. Buck could just slice through the hand if he had to but it would slow down the cut, give them time to get away. Then he felt something against his inner thigh, the intruder’s other hand was holding a knife to his femoral artery. This was going to get bloody. But before he could decide on his next move the intruder spoke.

“Good to see Steve’s upgraded his security since my last visit. I mean, I was hoping an alarm might go off when I broke in but going the attack dog route works too.” With adrenaline still surging it was hard to focus on the voice. It was a woman and it sounded familiar. He tried to take in the rest of her without moving from their stalemate. She was shorter than him, but solid muscle. A mess of bright red hair was right in front of him and he knew where he’d heard that voice before. From a recording behind a car in the middle of a gunfight.

“Natasha Romanoff?” he asked.

“Formerly known as, yes. How about we both put our claws away and talk.” Bucky didn’t react for a second, muscles still tensed with fear. “I’m not a threat here, soldier.” she said in Russian but softly, not the barked command he was used to hearing in that tongue. He released his hold and stepped back. Natasha sheathed her knife and closed and locked the door. When she stepped back Bucky unlocked and locked it again himself. It wasn’t secure unless he did it.

“So, you’re Bucky Barnes. We met, kind of.”

“If you knew I’d be here why’d you break in?” Bucky challenged. He didn’t take kindly to someone entering this space uninvited. She shrugged a little, something on her face almost sheepish but that could have been put on.

“Well Steve says you’re not here a lot so I thought there was a chance I’d get here when you weren’t. And if you were here… putting pressure on a person is good sometimes. You get to see what kind of subroutines they’re running.”

“I didn’t fucking murder you if that was what you were testing for.” Bucky said, suddenly angry. She just smiled.

“You couldn’t have if you tried. But it’s good to know it’s not your first reaction.” And then again in Russian, “Come on, you know I had to see for myself. I’m not as trusting as Steve.”

“Speak English.” Bucky snapped still angry even if he understood her reasoning. “I’m not Russian.”

“Not entirely. But I am. And it’s nice to speak plainly to someone who understands.” And her face was softer than it had been, honesty in her eyes. ‘I’m not your enemy’ she was saying, ‘we speak the same language, know the same things.’ Silence hung between them, rough edged but not dangerous.

“Steve and maybe Sam will be back soon.” Bucky said finally and Natasha made herself comfortable on the couch.

“That’s alright. I’d like to talk to you.” It was less talking and more grilling for information really. She asked him how much he remembered, asked him about the process Hydra had used for the wipes, what kind of drugs they’d used and how long the brainwashing process had been. He couldn’t answer all her questions, either didn’t remember or never knew. A lot of things he didn’t want to tell her. She had no right to this information, probably already knew most of the details from the Hydra files. She was testing him again, pushing him to see what he’d do maybe. Or maybe she wanted to see what was different, know where the gaps were and if he might still be protecting Hydra’s secrets. He definitely didn’t want her thinking the latter so he answered when he could. Because she was Steve’s friend and a world renowned superhero regardless of her past. And he was an ex-assassin who’d done nothing to atone for his sins so if she wanted to grill him he supposed he’d let her.

After a little while her questions became less technical, more.... genuinely interested maybe? She asked how much he remembered about Steve before the war, how different was he then.

“Do you remember who you were?” she asked finally. He knew she didn’t mean memories of events, meant the thoughts and feelings and day-to-day dreams that made someone a person.

“Enough to know I’m not him.” he said, sharply. Then, because he wanted to say it more than because he wanted her to hear it, “Enough to wish I was more like him.” She didn’t nod, didn’t pretend to know how he was feeling but she met his eyes and didn’t look away. They passed the last few minutes in silence before Steve came back.

Natasha made herself a fixture after that. She ran with Steve and Sam some mornings and trailed Steve home afterward. Other mornings she’d appear just as Steve was leaving and would stay with Bucky while Steve was gone.

Sometimes when the paranoia got too bad he’d force himself outside again, do a perimeter check, watch the building from across the street. One time Natasha tailed Bucky when he went out, although he didn't realize it until a voice spoke from behind him on the roof. He had stationed himself on the tallest building that still had visibility on the apartment and had a rifle trained on the passers by below.

"What's a guy like you doing in a place like this? Oh wait, let me guess." Natasha said and he jolted, then spun around aiming the gun at her chest.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he snarled, angry at being followed but angrier still that he hadn't noticed. God could anyone have snuck up on him like that?

"I think that's my line actually. You're the one with civilians in your crosshairs. And I'll just bet Steve doesn't know you have that thing. Now the safety's on which is why you're still standing but you better start talking fast."

"You don't know they're civilians. The only way to tell civilians from covert operatives is to watch for patterns and odd behavior. I thought the Black Widow would know that."

"Oh I do. I also know sometimes people just act odd. Not spying, not setting up an ambush just people talking to themselves or acting kind of shifty for no reason. It'd be awfully easy to blow someone away on a false hunch. Is that a risk you're willing to take?" Bucky swallowed anger draining out of him as he lowered his weapon.

"No." he said, quiet but firm. She nodded and left, somehow projecting the expectation that he follow her.

When they got back to the apartment Steve was in the shower. Bucky scanned the apartment then unlocked and re-locked the door three times, six times, nine times. It was only secure if he did it. Steve came out of the bathroom fully dressed and immediately noticed the assault rifle on the coffee table.

"What the hell is that?" Natasha ignored him.

“You know, most of the time you’re probably not meant to pander to paranoia. But in a line of work like ours the line between realistic and paranoid is pretty thin. It might help things to install some security systems. I’m pretty sure Stark bought the building as soon as you moved in so renovations shouldn’t be a problem.”

"Bucky is that yours?" Steve asked.

"No, it's mine." Natasha said, picking it up. "And I was just leaving. But seriously talk to Stark about security, Steve you're a super soldier not Superman." And then she left.

The next day the additions started. Cameras installed outside the apartment, in the stairwell and across the street. Reinforced front door and alarms installed on every window and air vent, even the ones too small for anyone to fit through. And Bucky could monitor it all from his tablet or his phone no matter where he was. It helped. He still searched for bugs regularly but his physical checks of the apartment at all hours stopped. He still locked and checked the alarms six, nine, twelve times whenever anyone went in or out but now he could relax at least for a few hours after doing it.

But Natasha still hung around, still watched him with sharp eyes as though waiting for Bucky to slip up. It grated on him, made him more irritable with everyone, more likely to lock himself away or spend the whole day outside, wandering to get away even though in all likelihood she was following him. He hated it. Finally one day when the first thing he saw coming out of his room in the morning was Natasha, no doubt assessing the circles under his eyes, he snapped.

"What are you waiting for? Me to suddenly run back to whatever's left of Hydra? For me to turn on Steve and try to kill him again? Just go on a rampage? What?" She looked down at her cup of coffee.

"It's one thing to say you're free, to say you're all you and no one else is knocking around your head. But it's not that easy. You don't just naturally grow out of it, don't leave it behind until you force it out." She looked back at him and he felt like she could see every part of him. "I don't think you'd be here if you thought you were a danger to Steve. But that doesn't mean you're not dangerous. Steve and Sam seem to think you're a victim in all this. Which is true. But no amount of brainwashing or torture or rightful shifting of the blame changes the fact that you did those things. You were the one who pulled the trigger, or some part of you anyway. And that’s not something you can ignore. Believe me.”

And he did. He knew who the Black Widow was, knew the things she’d done and the things she’d gone through. If anyone knew what it was like to have yourself stripped out and made into something else, something twisted and broken. But here she was cool, calm, not coming out of her skin with fear and self-hatred. And she was respected and trusted, not by everyone but her reputation had bounced back since the release of the SHIELD files as she continued to work with the Avengers. She had been like him once, but she had come out the other side somehow. And Bucky wanted to know how.

After that he watched her as much as she watched him. He actually invited her with him on his meanderings through the city so he could watch the way her gaze checked the rooftops for snipers, but also made eye contact with children, wiggling her eyebrows at them. He knew how to blend in with a crowd like she did, how to disappear in plain sight, although not quite as well. What he didn’t know was how to look at people and see something other than a threat or potential collateral damage. He worried about the people, but only because his mind was always telling him that a threat was around the corner and they were likely to get caught in the crossfire.

He asked her questions sometimes, when they weren’t likely to be overheard. Asked her about the Red Room, about how she was brainwashed and how long she was under observation at SHIELD when she turned, about how many people she’d killed and how many had deserved it. She didn’t volunteer information like Sam and she wouldn’t always answer but when she did she was honest, as far as he could tell. And somehow, without him really noticing, Bucky ended up with someone new he could talk to, someone new he could trust with the darker parts of himself. Somehow, he ended up with a friend.

 

* * *

 

The first time Steve heard Bucky laugh in 70 years it was at something Natasha said in Russian. There had been smirks before which had made Steve's heart race and snorts that had made him think of the Commandos around a campfire. But in the months since Bucky came back there had never been a true laugh. It was short and rough but real and it was the best thing Steve had heard in ages. He had thought he might never hear that sound again, had resigned himself to a distant, anxious, angry Bucky. Steve didn't care that he wasn't in on the joke, hell maybe it was at his expense, he didn't care, he was just so glad that Bucky still knew how to laugh.

It didn't happen frequently but now there was a sliver of hope. Steve brought out some of his best material, like the time he and Sam had tried out a new maneuver in Tokyo and somehow ended with Steve dangling 300 feet in the air by one ankle as tourists took photos beneath them. Or the time he and Natasha had been infiltrating an enemy compound and he'd left his shield on the ground outside the room they were searching because the colors would set off the motion sensors where their dark clothing didn't. They were discovered when one of the guards literally tripped over his shield and fell down a flight of stairs. They had barely made it out they were laughing so hard. Sometimes Bucky smiled or just called him an idiot. But once in a while he would actually laugh and Steve couldn't think of a single sound he loved more.

Steve loved Bucky so much he thought he couldn’t contain it sometimes, thought it must be obvious in every word he said and every move he made because he loved Bucky. And he’d forgotten what it had felt like, to live all the time with someone you loved that much, to have them there all the time and yet just out of reach. It was different now though, without the crippling guilt behind his feelings. There was still the instinct to feel ashamed but Steve reminded himself over and over again that there was nothing wrong with loving Bucky, nothing wrong with Steve for wanting to touch him. But it didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t, that Bucky needed a friend and if anything were ever to happen it would have to be because Bucky decided it was time. So Steve tried to just be happy for the small piece of progress and not think about what he couldn’t have.

He still worried about Bucky all the time, still thought he was too grim, too paranoid and too isolated. But the rapport he seemed to have with Natasha reassured Steve. It made him feel less guilty on the weekends he and Sam went down to DC because at least Bucky wasn't alone. But he still felt like there was something missing. He understood that Bucky was still adjusting, still recovering and may be doing so for a long time. But he couldn’t shake the idea that there was a huge chunk of himself that just… hadn’t come back yet, that he hadn’t remembered.  And the thing was, as far as Steve could tell, Bucky was never a girl. He bought clothes for himself now, all ratty second-hand things that weren’t even vaguely the right size. But never feminine clothing. And he never asked Steve to use different pronouns. That hadn’t been something they’d discussed back in the day because back then Steve couldn’t have referred to Bucky as anything but a boy to anyone they knew. But now it wasn’t like that so Steve had carefully - if a little awkwardly - explained about pronouns and how he would use whatever pronouns Bucky wanted, he just had to tell Steve what to use. Bucky had just nodded noncommittally and never brought it up again.

Steve didn’t know what to do. He could deal with a different version of the man he’d known, but he missed that side of Bucky and he couldn’t quite accept that he’d never see her again, not now when they finally lived in a time where Bucky could walk around wearing whatever she liked. Sure there’d still be looks and comments and a certain level of danger but Steve wasn’t a little guy anymore, and there were few thugs who could stand up to both of them. But it didn’t seem to matter, because Bucky was always a guy these days.

And people changed, people’s gender changed, maybe Bucky was always going to be a guy now. But Steve couldn’t help but wonder if this was just a part of Bucky that hadn’t come back to him yet, something he hadn’t quite remembered. It was to this end that Steve found himself searching perfume shop after perfume shop looking for something very particular. Most of the perfumes from back in the day that’d survived were the high fashion kind that Steve never would have been able to afford. And Steve didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, just knew that he would recognize it when he smelled it. On the fifth solid day of searching he found the closest match yet. It was a French company specializing in simple floral scents. The one he found wasn’t perfect but he thought it was close enough to be useful. So he bought it.

He thought about just spraying the apartment with it while Bucky was out doing whatever he did and waiting to see his face when he came in. But that wasn’t really fair. If this was going to help Bucky remember it should be his choice. So Steve just left the bottle on the bathroom counter and said nothing. Bucky’s paranoia meant he catalogued everything in the house, making sure nothing was bugged or dangerous. There was no way he’d miss it. But if he wanted to smell it would be up to him.

“What’s this?” Bucky asked, walking out into the living room the evening Steve brought it home.

“Perfume. I smelled it in the store, watched them box it up, had it with me the whole time. I didn’t exactly have it chemically tested but I’m pretty sure it’s not dangerous.” Steve didn’t want Bucky to just pour the whole thing down the toilet because it wasn’t safe. Bucky nodded slowly.

“Okay. But why?”

“It’s for you.” Steve said and Bucky glanced between him and the bottle a few times before retreating back into the bathroom. Then he walked back out and nothing more was said on the matter. Not that night, or the next day or the day after that. Bucky waited until Steve was gone at his bi-weekly lunch out with Sam to do anything. And Steve knew this because when he came home the bathroom door was shut. At first he thought nothing of it, just turned on the tv and waited for Bucky to come out. But he didn’t. There was no sound of running water. It was possible Bucky was having a bath but he wouldn’t make himself that vulnerable while Steve was gone. Steve knocked on the door and listened. Nothing.

“Bucky?” he said, knocking louder. Still nothing. “Bucky I need some sign of life in there alright.” He waited a moment and really banged on the door in case Bucky was what, asleep? He didn’t know, he was worried. If he put his ear to the door he thought he could hear breathing but it was such a faint sound he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t imagining it. “Buck, please.” Silence. That was enough. With one solid ram from his shoulder the door splintered inwards.

Inside Bucky was curled up against the far wall between the tub and the toilet. He wasn’t totally out of it, his eyes followed Steve as he crouched down in front of Bucky. But there was a steady stream of silent tears running down his face. This alone was not too uncommon. Bucky would often cry without seeming to realize it when a particularly bad memory came to him. But there was a terrible anguished look on his face that Steve had never seen before. Every few seconds his body shook with tiny barely-suppressed tremors.

“Bucky? Buck?” Steve asked, not sure if touch would be welcome when he was like this. He was curled into himself and Steve finally noticed the perfume bottle clutched in Bucky’s right hand. Bucky looked at it too, held it up and turned it clumsily in his hand.

“I remember Steve. I remember all of it. I’ve never remembered so much at once before. You wanted me to remember and I do. And I just… I just keep thinking: is it a punishment? Did all of this happen because there was something wrong with me? I never used to think so but god Steve look at what they made me into. You can’t make something out of nothing. You gotta be wrong to do wrong like I’ve done. And maybe that’s where all the wrong came from. Maybe this is God’s way of punishing me for tryin’ to be something I wasn’t. I just- Steve, I-” And then he bit his lips and another tremble swept through him. Steve couldn’t help himself now, couldn’t stand not to touch him. But he restrained himself, he just touched Bucky’s hands, ready to let go if Bucky flinched away. But Bucky didn’t move so Steve removed the bottle from his hand and intertwined their fingers. He didn’t know what to do most of the time, didn’t know how to help but this much, at least this much, he could do.

“Bucky, listen to me, listen. There is nothing on earth or in heaven that could convince me that there was something wrong with the way that you are. Not one goddamn thing. We all got a little darkness in us, especially after the war and I don’t doubt that Hydra took advantage of that. But being a gal sometimes has got nothing to do with that. No punishment, no nothing because you didn’t do anything wrong. And I will swear by that in front of God himself if He should care to disagree but honestly I don’t think that He does. I think He made you just the way you are, sometimes one thing, sometimes the other and there is nothing wrong with being true to that. You are perfect just the way you are, okay? I believe that.” Bucky was gripping his hand tight enough to hurt and the tears were coming faster now.

He pulled Steve forward and wrapped his arms around Steve’s neck, resting his forehead against Steve’s shoulder.

“It doesn’t feel wrong.” he said into Steve’s skin. Steve gently hugged Bucky to him, rested a hand on the back of Bucky’s head.

“That’s because it’s not. Furthest thing from it.”

“I’ve felt off recently and I couldn’t figure out why. This was it, this was what I was missing. I miss being a girl.” Steve didn’t have anything to say to that so he just pressed a kiss to Bucky’s temple and said nothing. They sat there for awhile until the shaking stopped and Bucky’s breathing evened out. Then Steve pulled away slowly and Bucky let him go with a steadying breath. The tears had stopped too. “Thank you.” Bucky said, scrubbing at red eyes.

“I’d do a lot more than that. We’re not even close to the end of the line yet, pal.” Steve said and helped Bucky up.

The perfume stayed on the floor for now but the next time Steve thought of it it was gone and not back on the bathroom counter. Bucky might have thrown it out but Steve suspected it had disappeared into his room and maybe, just maybe, Steve would smell it again sometime.

 

* * *

 

With the memories of being a woman came more intimate memories. She and Steve kissing, getting off, sleeping curled up together on a too-small bed. But just like most memories the facts came first and the feelings only later, if at all. So it took a long time to recover the feeling.

It took until one morning when they had both spent the night at Sam's, sharing his pull out couch. And mostly the night had been spent quietly awake, neither of them comfortable enough to sleep, occasionally sharing whispers in the crosshatched shadows of the blinds. But some time around dawn Steve had fallen asleep and some deep part of Bucky trusted Steve's instincts more than his own. If Steve felt safe enough to sleep then Bucky could too. But nightmares woke him again and again until finally he gave up and opened his eyes to the weak light of morning. And there was Steve, face relaxed and open just inches from Bucky's, eyelashes making shadows on his cheeks and lips barely open. He looked so young and so like he had when Bucky had woken after a night spent together. It couldn't help but jog his memory and he found himself staring as it struck him: he'd loved Steve.

That light which had colored every memory, that pull which had ensured that he remembered Steve first and most clearly was because he'd loved him. Bucky had pulled himself back from the brink of nothingness because Steve had called and a part of Bucky had remembered that he was always going to answer when Steve needed him. And following clearly on the heels of that thought was another: he still loved him. The gentle warm feeling he had when he was around Steve wasn't just friendship. He would do anything, be anything, for Steve because he loved him. All this time he had reminded himself that it was worth fighting, worth trying to survive because of Steve and he hadn't even realized that that was what love felt like. Love felt like reasons not to die or disappear.

The realization felt like an anchor, for days he kept himself from spiraling into fears or self-hatred with the reminder that he loved Steve Rogers, as though that one fact could redeem him just a little. It couldn't last forever though.

Eventually the paranoia crept back in and the certain knowledge that regardless of how he felt he would never be worthy of Steve's loyalty or friendship, much less love. But Natasha was there now too and she helped him in a different way. Her presence, her experience meant that Bucky started feeling calmer, less sure that every crack was a fissure and every shadow held a Hydra agent. His mind was finally free to focus on other things, to begin to process all the memories that he had catalogued but hadn’t really accepted yet. He remembered the pain and the torture and the endless twisting of everything he believed in until he was able, willing to do anything for the people who held his leash. But he also remembered how many people had begged, at the end, right before he pulled the trigger anyway. He remembered how many people had gotten caught in the crossfire because Hydra and by extension the Winter Soldier didn’t care about collateral damage. He was caught between boundless rage at what had been done to him and endless self-loathing at what he’d done, regardless of circumstances.

And it weighed on him, all the things he wasn’t anymore. He wasn’t the same man Steve remembered. He wasn’t the kid from Brooklyn. He wasn’t the war hero. He tried to be, for Steve’s sake, tried to say the right thing. He practiced his smile in the mirror until it looked like the pictures but it was so exhausting to play at being someone he should have been naturally. He didn’t have the energy most of the time, was too busy struggling with how fucked up everything was. Steve never said anything about it but Bucky could see that he was unhappy, noticed how little he smiled, how rarely he laughed and Bucky desperately wanted to be better for his sake.

And the thing was, now that he remembered what it had felt like to be a girl he realized why he’d had days since he’d escaped Hydra where things had just felt wrong. Where clothes didn’t feel right and everyone’s eyes on him felt invasive and wrong, not in the paranoid way he was used to, but just strange like they weren’t seeing the right thing. So there was something left of the woman Bucky had been and he wanted to reconnect with her if he could. But he knew things were kind of different now, there were words for people like him. He didn’t want to get Steve’s hopes up but Bucky started asking Steve for book recommendations. He borrowed Steve’s laptop to read online a lot too. But he didn’t do anything about it for awhile, just collected data. There was so much to read about and think about. There was masculinity and femininity, performance and social construction, gender identity and expression. There were so many terms and words and concepts and it was comforting to read about other people feeling the same way he did.

At the end of the day it all came down to how he felt though and he spent a lot of time just staring into space trying on different personas and identities in his head and trying to decide which ones felt right. When she finally felt pretty much decided, she started buying clothes, lots of clothes. At first she just ordered them online but she got tired quickly of the seemingly arbitrary sizes and misleading pictures. So she went out shopping. Bucky wasn’t ashamed. She never had been really. Back in the 30s and 40s she had hidden out of necessity and practicality not because she honestly believed she should have to. Now she saw no reason to hide. She marched into fitting rooms with her hands laden with dresses, talked to sales women about which of the fall colors best matched her complexion. The only thing which she had to hide was the metal arm so she got Steve to borrow one of Tony Stark’s digital masking devices and programmed it to make her arm look like skin. That was the part of herself she felt most uncomfortable with and she still felt best looking in the mirror with the mask on it. She didn’t wear it around the house though, it felt too much like trying to pretend she wasn’t a killer.

She still got odd looks, even without the arm because she always came in dressed in ratty jeans and too-big hoodies. And because she still looked like a man to most people. Steve offered to come along once but Bucky knew a) she could take care of herself, she was still a master assassin and ex-soldier and b) it would hurt more to have Steve there with her, witnessing the looks and comments. Sometimes Natasha came but honestly outside of missions she didn’t really care for feminine clothing, just wore whatever she stole from Clint or borrowed from Steve. Natasha seemed to think sartorial choices were beneath her somehow. So Bucky went alone and sneered right back at the women and their boyfriends who gave her trouble.

And she came home with bright colors and floral patterns peeking out of nearly overflowing bags. And then there were packages from places like Victoria’s Secret and Sephora. Fashion magazines and teen magazines with pink covers started showing up with Bucky’s name on them. She took to reading them everywhere with a big pen in hand sometimes crossing things out in the articles other times circling things in the pictures.

What it meant to be a woman was both the same and different now. Women were expected to have perfectly shaved legs and long loose hair and ‘natural’ makeup. They were still meant to be demure and skinny and petite and Bucky had no problem picking and choosing what being a woman meant to her from the various definitions society seemed to use. She remembered now what Mrs. Rogers had told her all those years ago and she wouldn’t forget it again. Being a lady was about choices and respect and those were the things that mattered to Bucky.

She didn’t start wearing her new things though. She would look at her full closet in the morning, touching the clothes as she decided what she felt like. But she was waiting for something and she didn’t know what.

Bucky didn’t bring it up and Steve didn’t ask. Just once in the morning after his run Steve came in and said something vague like “You know you can talk to me about anything right?” and it was so sincere that it didn’t even sound awkward. Bucky just raised an eyebrow and gave a vaguely mocking but also kind of honest “Uh-huh.” He was feeling pretty masculine that day so there was nothing really to discuss. But that apparently was all it took because two days later when she woke up feeling soft and feminine she padded into the kitchen in her pyjamas and started talking.

“I think ‘he’ is good most of the time.” Steve looked up over the rim of his coffee and tried to catch up. His eyes darted around as he tried to figure out what ‘he’ Bucky was talking about. She knew Steve was useless without caffeine and at least thirty minutes of running but she didn’t care. “Pronouns? ‘He, him, his?’ You can stick to those generally. But sometimes, like today, you should use ‘she.’ And I’m thinking ‘they’ occasionally, I’ll let you know. Okay.” she said and left Steve to finish his coffee. She popped back just long enough to say: “Oh, and invite Sam back for breakfast. I’ll make waffles.” Steve left for his run shortly after and Bucky carefully started what she knew would become a ritual. She shaved under her arms in the shower and shaved her face as soon as she got out. She used the blow dryer Natasha had left last time she’d slept on their couch. She wanted to do more with her hair but felt a little at a loss at the moment with all the possibilities and styles and tools and products she’d seen. So she just put it up in a little messy bun like she’d seen women in the grocery store wearing and left it like that.

Then she pulled on black stockings and a black pencil skirt over black cotton panties. She’d thought about breaking out the really lacy shit but she felt that was a little bit ambitious for the first time she’d dressed up nicely since 1942. Next was a white blouse with small black flowers on it. She didn’t like the way her left hand looked sticking out cold and harsh from the soft fabric but it couldn’t be helped.

Next she arranged her makeup. Women put so much more into their makeup these days. She didn’t get blemishes so she didn’t need concealer. But she put on some foundation like she’d seen in tutorials online. She had a palette of eyeshadow and decided to try out some nice neutral brown shades the woman in the store had recommended. When she finished she decided that would need some more practice but she left it for now. Next she applied liquid black eyeliner. Here her left arm became useful because it didn’t move or shake like her right arm did so she could make careful sweeping lines over her eyelids. It still took a couple of attempts to get it at just the right thickness but qtips were a wonderful invention so she didn’t worry about it. Mascara and blush she was more used to so she put that on quickly. Last was lipstick and then she surveyed herself. She was so used to seeing her face without makeup that it seemed like a lot, especially for a casual day. But she liked the way it looked even if barely anyone would get to see it.

She decided against jewelry this time but looking at herself like this she was more or less decided that she’d pierce her ears soon. She felt so in control like this, shaping the way she looked and what went on her person. Nobody else’s opinions mattered, it was just about what she wanted to do with her own body. It gave her a kind of rush, the power of it. A voice in the back of her head was still whispering that she didn’t deserve this, that she should be serving penance right now not playing dress up. But she ignored it as best she could.

She felt so energized she couldn’t stand to sit still long enough to paint her nails, just sprayed on some of the perfume Steve had gotten her and went into the kitchen. Steve was a decent cook these days, better than he had been last time they’d lived together. He was stubborn and by-the-book, pushing his way through recipes that resulted in edible if not really gourmet food. He was much better at baking honestly. Still it meant there was a frilly red, white and blue apron in the kitchen with a star on the chest because Steve found the more obscure Captain America merchandise oddly fascinating. Bucky put it on now because there was no damn way she was getting batter on her nice new clothes.

When she heard the sound of footsteps in the hall she closed her eyes. Then she took a deep breath and opened them again as the door opened. She turned around in time for Steve and Sam to come into the kitchen. They were both sweaty and gross and Steve was carrying a little plastic bag. Bucky put her hands on her hips and watched their faces. Mostly Sam because he was the new variable here.

“Nice apron.” he said, voice light and genuine, not mocking.

“It’s Steve’s.”

“Should have known.” And that was that. She didn’t know if Steve had warned him or if he was just that good at going with the flow but she didn’t really care.

“Sam, you’re welcome to use my bathroom or you can take turns using the shower in the hall but neither of you are eating until you’re clean.”

“Yes ma’am. Which way to your bathroom?”

“First door on the left.” she said and checked the berries that were simmering on the stove. She heard plastic rustling behind her and the sound of a package opening. She was feeling good, relaxed and didn’t feel the need to check the item was safe just yet. But she listened as Steve went down the hall and it sounded like he paused in front of her door. A few more minutes and then the hall bathroom opened and shut and the water started running in there. She turned the stove down and checked that the latest waffle wasn’t done yet before she went to go check.

A small white board was stuck on her bedroom door at about eye level. On it Steve had written: “Pronouns Today:” and underneath, “she/her.” Bucky stared at it for a long time. Then she erased the ‘she/her’ and wrote it again in careful cursive they all learned in school. It looked better that way. Then she smiled at it and went to check on the waffles.

Breakfast was a success. After Sam finished, while Steve and Bucky were still stuffing themselves with a truly obscene number of waffles drenched in berry sauce, Sam told them all about the training exercises and flight patterns he’d been trying out with Stark and Colonel Rhodes over the past week. He also told them he was going to be staying with his family in D.C. next week because it was his nieces’ birthdays on Wednesday.

Bucky left the boys to clean up and grabbed one of the many books she’d started reading, this one on the fall of the Soviet Union in Russian because Natasha had recommended it. When they finished Steve and Sam set up on the couch and started playing a videogame where they fought dragons and led nations. Steve and Bucky had their own game going so she didn’t pay much attention to it, just kept reading. But she kept getting distracted by the flash of her metal hand. Every time she moved to turn the page her eyes would be drawn to it, to the tiny dark gaps where the plates met. She remembered strange hands pulling those plates away to clean out the blood that had seeped into the machinery underneath. She remembered the stink of it.

She shifted, heart speeding up and breakfast suddenly feeling heavy in her stomach. She pulled the sleeve of her blouse down to cover most of her hand. She didn’t have sensation in her left arm, just pressure. Normally it didn’t bother her. She was used to it. But now she could feel where the silky fabric of her blouse disappeared into nothingness, into a void where she could no longer feel anything. She stared at the pages and the words suddenly seemed ominous, like barked orders reinforced with guns. She felt vulnerable and deadly all at once and she couldn’t stand the sight of the metal next to the white of her shirt. She couldn’t stand it.

She got up quickly and dropped her book on the floor. Neither of them said anything but the game sounds stopped. She wasn’t paying attention. She got to her bedroom. She felt like she was shaking but she knew if she checked her hands would be steady. Her hands were always steady. You couldn’t have a killer with shaky hands.

She rooted around in her drawers and the array of guns and knives she had underneath her clothes suddenly seemed dangerous. God, why did Steve let her have those? Didn’t he know better? But she found what she was looking for. A pair of white wrist-length gloves. She had had a hell of a time finding feminine gloves in her size but now she was glad she’d gone to the effort. She quickly pulled one over her left hand and it felt so much better. Without the glint of metal she could pretend it didn’t exist. She let it drop to her side, limp and useless like it wasn’t even there. She looked at the other glove but putting it on one handed would be difficult so she left it.

Coming back into the living room she was met with silence but she could feel eyes on her. Maybe she was imagining it. Maybe they’d muted the game but were still playing, focused on something else. Maybe. She didn’t look up to check, just picked up her book and sat back down on the loveseat. She leaned the book against her drawn-up knees and began flipping pages with her right hand, trying to find where she’d left off. She let her other arm dangle.

“Does your metal arm bother you?” Sam asked. Of course it would be Sam. Steve was always so careful to never ask, never push, just leave her be. But Sam was all about productive pushing. She thought about playing dumb but somehow that seemed even more vulnerable.

“Sometimes. It doesn’t really match the outfit.” she said, trying to be light but failing.

“Can you take it off?” he asked. Her stomach jolted and her shoulder flared with memories. She remembered the pain of losing her real arm, the pain of gaining this one. She knew exactly how much it would hurt to try to take this thing from her.

“No.” she said and her voice was hard, final. She didn’t look up from her book but she saw Sam shrug. She knew he cared but she also knew that if she didn’t want to talk he wouldn’t make her. He wasn’t going to be her shrink.

So they went back to their game and she went back to her book and ignored the thing she knew was there, focused on wiggling her toes to feel the stockings against them and remembering how she’d looked in the mirror when she’d finished her makeup. That was who she was, not some metal thing.

 

* * *

 

Steve and Sam drove down to D.C. separately that weekend, each on their bikes rather than sharing one of Tony’s cars like they normally did because this time Sam was staying for the week rather than coming back right away. It was a nice drive, Steve was so used to it now he could almost go on autopilot, just think about other things as he drove. He thought about how much better Bucky seemed to be doing recently, especially when she dressed up. Steve had even caught her smiling at her reflection in the toaster in the morning once and it was wonderful. There were still bad days, when Bucky searched every inch of the apartment three times and locked every door and window over and over again. Days when he wouldn’t go outside even with Natasha and kept a gun in his waistband and at least two knives on his person. But there were better days too, now and Steve was grateful for that. On the good days Bucky sometimes seemed so much like his old self that Steve would feel an odd jolt, like the world was wobbling off center because here he was with Bucky, throwing around words and smiling like he’d just pulled off an impossible shot but it wasn’t 1943 and Morita wasn’t about to tell them their orders had come through. They were in the future and Bucky was the only thing the same in a world that was so different. And it made Steve want to cling to him, to shut the blinds and cover up the tv and pretend nothing had changed, they were still just them. But then Bucky would slip, would say something he never would have said before and Steve would remember Bucky wasn’t really that person anymore and Steve wasn’t really the same person either.

The weekend passed quickly. Peggy was doing well and it was such a relief to be around her, to talk to her. They talked about the little things that had happened since they last saw each other, the day-to-day things and Steve could almost pretend like they’d passed the years together, like they were both old and still in love and spent their time together talking about nothing because everything important had already been said a hundred times. It was easy to imagine. Steve felt so old sometimes.

The last evening Sam knocked on the door joining their hotel rooms together. Steve answered with a toothbrush in his mouth. He garbled out something that was meant to be ‘Give me a second.’ Sam just nodded and sat down on the edge of Steve’s bed.

“What’s up?” Steve asked when he’d finished brushing. He sat down next to Sam.

“I think maybe you should stay here a bit longer.” Sam said after a moment. “You’ve met my sister already and my ma and they both love you. My cousins are gonna be in town for the party ‘cause they’re on leave from the Army right now, they’d love to meet you. And really, there’s no party like a Wilson party even if it is for eleven-year-olds.”

“You know I’d like to meet more of your family, I love everyone I’ve met so far. But it’s not really my place, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be intruding. You’re a friend of the family now, you’re always welcome.” But there was something too insistent about his voice, something a little desperate.

“Why do you want me to stay, Sam?” he asked, wary. Sam looked at his hands for a long moment, then he met Steve's eyes.

"I'm worried about you, man." Steve felt a strange mix of fear and relief, like he'd been caught at something he hadn't really wanted to get away with.

"Why?" he asked because that was important. Sam raised an eyebrow at him, like 'why do you think?'

"When we first met you couldn't think of a single thing that made you happy. Now-"

"Bucky makes me happy." Steve said because it was true.

"Yeah, sometimes. But come on Steve I've seen you on Bucky's bad days, your face is just stuck, like you're trapped or you don't know how to feel. I'm not a fucking mind-reader but you look terrible is what I'm saying." And Steve felt ashamed, wondered if Bucky could tell, wondered if his own issues were making it harder for Bucky.

"Of course I'm upset when Bucky's not doing well, he's my friend."

"That's not- Steve, that's not what I'm talking about and you know it. You pin everything on Bucky," Steve flinched, "If he's happy you're happy, if he's going out of his mind with stress you're right there with him, you just hide it a little better. You're too close man. I'm worried." And his face was so open, mouth firm but eyes kind, that Steve couldn't feel too defensive.

"Thanks, Sam. I appreciate the concern," he said, standing up and signaling the end of the conversation, "but I'm fine. I-"

"What if Bucky doesn't get better?" Sam shot out. "What if he always has bad days? Hell, what if he always has more bad days than good? It might happen, Steve. Recovery looks different for everyone." Steve sunk back down, he felt like his strings had been cut, like all the forward momentum had been sucked right out of his bones. He had thought about this possibility, but he'd told himself it was just pessimistic thinking, of course things would get better. But here was Sam, validating every fear.

"Then I'll be there," he said finally, "every day. Going out of my mind with stress but trying to help any way I can because that's what matters. I'll always be there for him."

"Yeah, but." Sam looked so worried, so torn up. "You could get better, Steve. You two don't have to be miserable together. It's not your job to be a one man trauma team for the rest of your life. Bucky has Natasha, he should have a therapist. He's letting people help him. What about you?" Steve wanted it so badly. He could feel it now. The ground had been eroding under his feet for a while now and suddenly he could feel that he was only hanging on by his fingertips. And Sam was standing there, offering his hand.

"What do you suggest?" Steve got out, although his voice was choked.

"Right now? Right now, I think you should stay in D.C. for the week, relax a little, disconnect a lot from what's happening back home. Just, take a breather, Steve. And then when we get back, I've asked around, I know some people you could talk to."

"Maybe I do need a break." he whispered and he looked up so the water in his eyes wouldn't fall, took a few deep breaths past the lump in his throat. "And, and I'll think about the other thing."

"That's all I ask." Sam said, voice low and unbearably kind. Then he squeezed Steve's arm for a moment and moved to leave.

“I love him.” Steve said before Sam reached the door. “I love him so much. How can that not be enough?” Enough for Steve, enough for Bucky, enough to fix them both. It felt so huge it should have been able to fix everything but it didn’t seem to help at all.

“Doesn’t work like that. Love is great and it’ll keep you going when you want to give up but it can’t fix something that’s broke. No matter how much you want it to.”

“Thank you, Sam. For everything. I got lucky finding someone like you.” Sam looked back at Steve, smiled like Steve’s words were enough when really they weren’t even close.

“You’re welcome. And you’d do the same for me. So we’re both pretty lucky.” And then he went back to his room and Steve was left with a lot to think about.

 


	3. Pagan of the Good Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for continuing issues with prosthetics.

Steve had been distant recently. Ever since he came back from the week with Sam’s family Steve had been spending more time away from the apartment. He would stay late for a team meeting at the tower and then just spend the night. Or sleep on Sam’s couch after another semi-failed attempt at getting him drunk. Bucky was always invited when Steve went over to Sam’s but he rarely went.

He hardly went anywhere these days. He didn’t walk the city for hours anymore, hyper-alert and hypervigilant. He didn’t feel the need to stake out the apartment or patrol their neighborhood for potential dangers. His paranoia was slowly lessening. But in it’s place was a different kind of fear. He didn’t like the idea of people looking at him, looking and seeing somehow that there was something wrong with him. Even with his arm covered up he felt exposed in public, as if all his sins were written on his face. And part of him thought people deserved to know, that everyone should be able to tell there was a murderer among them. But a larger part just wanted to hide, to escape the scrutiny he imagined coming from every person he passed on the street.

Plus, most days he just didn’t see the point of going out. He could get Steve to buy food and if Natasha wasn’t busy she’d usually come over with a judging eyebrow and a stern talking to that he needed to get out more. But she’d still come. And Bucky’s wardrobe was full so there was no use buying new clothes. So he just stayed in, read a lot, caught up on all the pop culture he’d missed. But it wasn’t really entertaining, it was all just passing time. Sometimes when Steve wasn’t there he’d just stay in bed. He still didn’t sleep well and he was always exhausted. It was so easy to just lie in bed and let himself drift off again and again, catching a few minutes before a nightmare would wake him. He could almost feel the memories pulling him back into sleep like a technician’s hands pushing him back into a metal chair. But he didn’t have the strength to fight it. He never had.

So he just let the days pass. And he missed Steve when he was gone for more than a few hours at a time. One night when Steve was at Sam’s Bucky got up around three, tired of feeling tired but being unable to get to sleep. Nights were like that sometimes, an exercise in frustration as all the malaise of the day turned into wide-eyed tension and the deep seated belief that something was wrong. And the arm was bothering him. He couldn’t feel anything past the shoulder, he knew that, and yet any time he closed his eyes he thought he could feel his fingertips inching closer as though pulling a trigger or squeezing a throat. The feeling was barely there, movements so slow and tiny he knew he must be imagining them. But now that he was paying such close attention he could feel it again and again, that phantom echo of what it felt like to take another life. Finally he couldn't stand it anymore, just got up and left his bedroom hoping something in the living room could distract his mind for a bit.

Except, curled up on the window seat was Steve. Bucky knew who it was immediately but there was still the thrill of surprise and fear at something unexpected.

"Steve?" was all he got out. Steve immediately turned toward him.

"Sorry, Buck, sorry." he said.

"What're you doin' here?" he said, "I thought you were sleepin' at Sam's."

"That was the idea. But then I couldn't sleep for the life of me and I thought I might as well be awake at home." He shrugged. "Hope I didn't scare you."

"Nah, you're fine. I can't sleep either, we can be awake together." He still felt not quite himself, nervous and tired and on-edge all at once. But knowing Steve was here immediately made him feel safer. He thought if he tried he could probably stretch out on the sofa and sleep knowing Steve was right there. But he didn't. Because something about the slope of Steve's shoulders and the way his hands were tucked between his knees told Bucky that Steve needed someone right now. So he sat gingerly with his back to the window seat and his head resting against Steve's hip.

"What were you doing?" he asked, craning his head back to look at Steve's face. But he was staring out of the window.

"Just- watching." he said. "I used to do this a lot back in D.C., spend nights reading and watching the lights. It kept me... grounded." Bucky mumbled some vague affirmative so Steve would keep talking but he didn't, just let the silence fall.

In spite of himself Bucky felt his eyes closing and his body relaxing. He could feel himself drifting off to Steve's quiet breaths. Just as the world was beginning to fall away Bucky felt the fingers on the left hand begin their slight movement and he snapped awake. He curled the left hand into a fist and caught the wrist with his other hand holding it, trying to strangle the phantom life out of it. He must have jolted Steve because he felt a weight on his left shoulder just where the plates started.

"You okay?" Steve asked. "Is it bothering you?"

"Yeah." he said, clenching and unclenching the fist slowly. He had sense enough to know where it was in space and know when it was moving but he couldn't actually feel it. He clenched the hand as tight as it would go, hearing the gears and plates grind but relishing in not feeling it.

"It doesn't- it doesn't hurt, does it?"

"No. I can't feel anything with it."

"But it still bothers you?" The sound of metal against metal grated on him so Bucky stopped. He let go with his right hand and slowly began touching the dark spaces between the plates. The feeling made him sick but he had to do it, had to prove that he couldn't feel it.

"Yeah, it does." he said finally. "It's not mine, you know?" There was a long pause and a few times Bucky heard the slight inhale that meant Steve was about to speak. His hand was still on Bucky’s shoulder.

"I sometimes hate this body." Steve said at last. "I know it's not the same. I chose this and I'm glad for everything it allows me to do. I'm glad I didn't die alone in the 40s of something they've got a cure for now. I'm glad I don't get sick anymore. But- but it's not mine. As much as I hated it I had that small, sickly body for 20 years and I think that'll always be the body I think of as mine. I know it's not the same." he said again, "But I hate being stuck with something that's not mine sometimes too."

Bucky didn't know what to say to that. It wasn't the same. But it was... comforting somehow, knowing Steve got it even a little.

"You know," Steve said, "Stark could probably take a look at it."

"What'd'ya mean?"

“Based on your file it’s pretty advanced tech. I’m not sure Stark could replicate it, but I bet he could at least figure out a way to disconnect it, make it so you could take it on and off maybe.” Bucky didn’t know what to do with that thought. He knew how much a procedure like that would hurt, could still feel the echo of every nerve ending on fire as they connected it to the prosthetic. But the pain, no matter how great, would be temporary. And the idea of actually being able to take the arm off, to rid himself of that hourly reminder that his body was and somehow always would be Hydra’s tool was a heady thought. But it would also leave him vulnerable. The arm was powerful, it gave him an advantage in fights even against the strongest opponents. There was always a possibility of attack or ambush and his mind told him that he had to be prepared at all times. Not having the arm would make him weak.

Was it worth it? Was the pain and the weakness worth the peace of mind? He knew what the answer should be, knew that keeping the arm was more important than his discomfort. But he hated it. He hated the arm and everything it reminded him of, hated the way it made him feel every time he caught sight of it, hated being stuck with something that wasn’t and had never been his. These days he was firmly Bucky Barnes, but the arm was a scrap of Hydra surgically attached to his body. The mere idea of being rid of it filled his with such longing, such imagined relief that his eyes were tearing up before he could control himself. He knew what should be more important, but he wanted to be rid of it so badly, he would take the risk.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough but decisive. “Set it up next time you talk to him.”

“Okay. Will do.” Steve said. Bucky's insides felt jittery, excited and nervous and already thinking ahead to all the possible scenarios that could go down with Tony. Steve must have been able to tell because he moved his hand from Bucky’s shoulder to his head and slowly began run his fingers through Bucky’s hair. The movements were gentle and smooth and Bucky relaxed into Steve’s hand. The sensation was a distraction from his thoughts and from the arm and it finally lulled Bucky into sleep.

It didn’t last long of course, he jerked awake soon enough to find Steve still up too, looking out the window again. Steve helped him sleep a few times that night but it never really felt like enough. Bucky wished sometimes that he could just sleep for weeks at a time, let life pass him by until he could wake up feeling right with himself, wake up back in the 30s maybe, young and stupid and happy. But it wasn’t that easy.

The next day Steve had training at the Tower and came back with news that Tony was on board for Friday. The next few days were spent in a state of constant low-grade unease. Bucky was always hyper-aware of the arm and he alternated between fear, a kind of sick excitement, and an empty hopeless certainty that this whole thing was going to fail spectacularly.

Friday morning Tony sent a nondescript yet fancy black car with heavily tinted windows and a driver. The idea that people couldn't see him calmed Bucky's nerves a bit but his chest still felt tight and his palm was sweaty. They went straight to Tony's labs where Tony himself was, along with Natasha and Sam for moral support, and an actual medical doctor who specialized in neural feedback and advanced prosthetics because Steve insisted that reading a few medical textbooks did not make Tony an expert.

Steve had talked him into a sedative for the procedure. He wouldn't be fully out because they needed to know when and how he could move the arm during the stages of detachment. But his entire left side was numbed with enough anesthetic to knock out a horse. When they started pulling apart the shoulder plates he couldn't look away as the mass of scarred flesh underneath was revealed. It was terrible to see, terrible to remember the strong, healthy arm that used to be there but somehow it was still better than the cold shine of the metal. Finally they got down to the part of the arm where it was fused to steel-reinforced bone and then he had to look away. He hated to think about the metal inside him even though he knew that was the only way his body could support the weight. He knew around the metal bone would be the meat of the connection where wires met flesh and intertwined with nerves. He didn't want to see it, didn't want to see where the distinction between he and it was no longer clear. Steve kept him updated on their progress though as Bucky bored holes into the darkness of his eyelids. Sam held his flesh hand and Natasha stood just behind him where he could hear her carefully steady breaths like whispers of comfort.

At a few points the anesthesia wasn't enough, the connection was too deep and something in his brain seared with pain. He didn't scream. He knew the first time he'd been on Zola's table he'd screamed, in between reciting his name, rank and serial number. But that was a long time ago and these days Bucky Barnes didn't scream.

Eventually all the connections were separated and watching Steve's face he looked a little queasy. But the arm was completely detached.

"Let me see it." he said. There must have been something in his voice because no one asked if he was sure. Instead Tony just held it carefully and brought it around for him to see without turning his head. Seeing it made everything else go foggy as his mind fought the idea that it was apart from him. He'd never thought of it consciously as his but apparently subconsciously there had been some connection because he could feel his brain trying to rectify the situation, trying to bend it around so it was still connected to him even though he could see that it wasn't. He felt like reality was trying to slip away from him. Steve's voice was distant and hazy. Finally Natasha swearing in Russian behind him made it through the fog, and then the feeling of Sam's hand too-tight on his filtered in. Finally he looked away from the arm and into Steve's worried face.

"I'm okay." he said even though no doubt everyone in the room could tell that wasn't true. But Steve just nodded.

"Damn right you are. Now keep looking at me while Tony gets to work on your arm and the doctor works on your shoulder, okay? Just keep looking at me." And with Natasha and Sam and Steve around him it wasn't easy but it was possible to ignore the fact that someone was playing with parts of his body, changing them, fixing them. It's different, he kept reminding himself, he asked for this. It took a long time, several injections of anesthetic, and much consultation between Tony and the doctor before anything started to go right. They'd done as many scans and as much planning as they could to prepare, but actually working with the real thing was tricky. Finally they thought they might have it figured out. The nerves in his arm were now wired into a metal connector which could interface with the hardware in the arm. The arm itself was relatively unchanged, it would fit just as it had and it would automatically lock into place. Tony had jerry-rigged a bioscanner into one of the plates of the shoulder so only Bucky's handprint would unlock the mechanism and allow it to be removed.

The moment of truth came when they tried to reconnect it. There was a shock of not quite pain, but awareness and then he knew where the arm was again, could move it in space. Tony stressed that this was a prototype, there would need to be much tweaking and changing before the new connection was as reliable and complete as the old one. Bucky had to try it for a few days and come back with feedback so Tony could improve it. Bucky felt overwhelmed and airy, like he could just float away.

The anesthetic was wearing off but Steve, Sam and Natasha helped him down to the car. And then they all piled in, Steve on one side, Natasha on Bucky's lap in the middle and Sam squeezed in on the other side. There was a perfectly good empty seat in the front but no one mentioned it and Bucky was glad of the contact. By the time they made it back home he was feeling more grounded and with it.

As soon as they were inside the apartment he checked the alarms, then did a physical check, then reset the alarms three times exactly. The anesthesia had made him feel weak and exposed and even though it had worn off now he still felt vulnerable. The others were well on their way to making lunch by the time he was done.

"Do you want to take it off now?" Steve asked. Bucky was nodding before he'd even thought the question through. Taking it off would make him more susceptible to attack but he wanted it off so badly, wanted to move without the oppressive weight of it. They went into his room and Steve held it as Bucky put his palm to the release plate. It didn't work at first and Bucky's pulse spiked. He couldn't get it off, he couldn't- he wiped his hand on his pants and tried again. Then a third time and finally there was the sound of gears moving. It was just being finicky, Bucky reassured himself. Tony had said the biometric scanner wasn't very good, that was one of the things that still needed to be upgraded. Unlocked, the weight of the metal would naturally pull the arm out but Steve held it steady so Bucky could carefully move away from it. One second he was aware of the arm, the next he wasn't and his body truly did end at the shoulder. Steve went at put it away in the wall safe; they'd decided the tech was too dangerous to leave out in the apartment in case someone tried to take it so locking it up was safer even if that made it more difficult to get to in an emergency. Bucky wasn't thinking about that. He was staring at his scarred shoulder. He could only see the edge of the metal connector and otherwise it was all flesh. He moved back and forth, and it was completely different without the weight of the arm unbalancing him. He was wearing a tank top and he wondered what it would look like to have an empty sleeve on that side. Better, he was sure, than seeing that metal thing. He followed Steve back to the dining table, stumbling a bit because of the new center of gravity.

Holding a sandwich with one hand proved to be somewhat difficult but he didn't care about the inconvenience, he was too busy shifting his toes and twisting his torso, aware of every inch of skin and how it was all his. Every time one of the others would look at him they'd smile and it took him a while to realize it was because he had a small smile on his face all the time. It was gone. The thought went around and around in his head but it never lost its potency.

It took almost a week for other feelings to filter in, for the absolute shine of being able to take it off to dim just a bit. He couldn't do everything himself without the arm. On Tuesday she wanted to paint her nails but had to wait until Steve got home because she couldn't very well do it one handed. It was worth it for the way she looked in the mirror when she finished, in a [sleeveless summer dress](http://picture-cdn.wheretoget.it/3aq6c5-l-c335x335-dress-belt-clothes-floral-bag-make-up-hat-flowers-skater-dress-vintage-roses-rise-floral-dress-white-floral-short-dress-rose-short-dress-flower-cute-cute-dress-flower-print-bustier.jpg) she never would have worn before that showed off her right arm. Her eyeshadow matched the brown and white flowers and her nails matched the red ones. Looking in the mirror there was no longer the sense of wrongness, no longer the reminder of everything she'd been and done. But she did still feel an ache, still looked at her left shoulder and mourned the loss of her arm. She wasn't whole, but she wasn't Hydra's attempt at a perfect super soldier either and that felt like a victory.

* * *

Bucky seemed happier without his metal arm. He still wore it about half the time, mostly on his more paranoid days or when he could be coaxed out of the house. Without the arm weighing him down he moved differently, seemed lighter on his feet and more active without being antsy. He started listening to music for the first time since he’d come back. He worked his way through record shops and the iTunes store seemingly picking things based on how interesting their name sounded or how weird their album cover was. For a few weeks there was always something bizarre and different playing when Steve came home. Slowly Bucky started to discern between music he liked and music he didn’t. Some of the stuff that stayed completely baffled Steve, who these days mostly liked his music slow and melodic. Bucky seemed to lean towards happy songs. Sometimes they were happy-sounding sad songs, where the fast tune made up for lyrics about failed love and dying young. Other times the songs sounded sad until you listened to the singer talking about hope in the darkness and finding yourself. Bucky didn’t seem to care for one decade over another, listened to songs from when they were kids, songs from the war, songs that were released last month and everything in between. Steve found he kind of liked the pop songs Bucky was always playing, would bop his head enthusiastically along with the beat until Sam caught him at it and just about died laughing.

Bucky started singing in the shower. Not loudly, but enough that Steve’s enhanced hearing could catch a few bars over the sound of the water when he walked past the bathroom door. And he also started watching a lot of videos and tv shows and movies about dancing. There were so many styles now, so much to learn and Bucky seemed to enjoy studying it. Steve never actually saw him dancing but often when he got home the furniture in the living room would be moved and Bucky would be sitting in the empty space replaying a particular move on the tv and looking pleased with himself.

Steve suggested dancing classes, even looked up a few dance studios nearby but that was too much for Bucky. He looked a little trapped when Steve brought it up and quickly shot the idea down. Steve supposed that made sense. Bucky still didn’t go out much and never interacted with anyone he didn’t know. Steve worried about Bucky but not as much as he used to. Bucky was clearly getting better.

Steve, on the other hand, wasn’t. He’d thought that finding Bucky would make everything better. And then he had thought that Bucky being happy would make everything better. But here he was with Bucky happy probably half the time and still Steve felt… unmoored. He tried pulling away from Bucky, getting more space as Sam suggested but spending too long away made him feel unsettled and home-sick. And he missed Bucky when he wasn’t there, was always worried that if he spent too much time away Bucky would somehow realize he didn’t need Steve afterall. It was a silly, selfish thought but he couldn’t help it.

But if he spent too much time with Bucky he would feel aimless and weirdly hopeless. After everything he'd been through, Bucky was recovering but the shadow of the past would always be there. Steve would always look at Bucky and know that he'd been suffering while Steve had been safely frozen. He tried to stay upbeat, tried to focus on the progress Bucky was making and the good Steve was doing with the Avengers. But there was always a voice in the back of his mind telling him it didn't matter, nothing mattered. He could ignore it most of the time but he hated that it was there, hated that he couldn't be happy the way he should have been.

He thought about Sam's other suggestion, that Steve should talk to someone. He knew there was nothing wrong with needing professional help, knew views on mental health had changed as much as views on sexuality had. And if he was totally honest he knew that what he was feeling wasn't normal. But he wasn't ready yet, wasn't ready to admit that he couldn't do this on his own.

So he exercised more, because the endorphins were meant to make you feel better. And he oscillated between giving Bucky space and hanging around the house all day. He tried to ignore the really bad days, the ones when he stared at his clock and couldn't for the life of him get out of bed, had to text Sam that he wasn't up for a run that morning. And Sam would ask if Steve wanted him to come by but he'd say no and then just, think and feel sick with failure and just lie there as the day passed. Bucky never came to get him on those days. He would offer food through the door that Steve would decline but he wouldn't ambush Steve when he went to the bathroom, would just let him waste the day away. Steve couldn't decide how he felt about that.

The day after, he'd push himself twice as hard to make up for it and dodge any questions about how he was doing. What was there to say? He was weak and lazy and it wouldn't happen again. Until the next time it happened.

He made himself go out more. They couldn't both become hermits. He'd walk around the city, visit museums and parks and sometime even convince Bucky to go with him. Started going to guest lectures at the local community colleges and sitting in the back. Went to VA meetings and did the same. Secretly, he signed up for one of the dance classes he'd recommend for Bucky. It didn't fill the empty feeling in his chest but it made him feel like he was trying.

It was one of the bad days. Steve had cancelled a meeting with the Avengers and texted Sam and now he was just staring at the ceiling, digging his fingernails into his palms and trying to force himself out of bed. There was a knock on the door.

“Not hungry, Buck. But thanks.” he said. There was a pause but no sound of retreating footsteps.

“Can I come in?” Bucky asked finally. This was new and Steve didn’t really know what to do.

“Y-yeah.” he said, voice still scratchy from sleep. He thought maybe he should get up, or hide his face under the covers, or do something. But he couldn’t make himself care enough to move.

Bucky came in and sat on the edge of the bed silently. Steve curled around him without thinking about it, too busy remembering all the times he’d been sick and Bucky had sat on his bed just like that to give him his soup or his medicine or just to reassure himself that Steve was still alive. Bucky didn’t say anything for a long time.

“I still don’t remember everything. I don’t think I ever will.” he said. Whatever Steve had been expected it wasn’t that. He didn’t know what to say, thought it should be reassuring or comforting or supportive but he couldn’t find the words that usually came so easy. “But I remember a lot of things. Especially stuff about you, or about us. I remember so well I half expect to turn around and see a little guy sometimes. That’s not the point. The point is…. remember after your ma’s funeral?”

“Yeah,” Steve whispered, “I remember. ‘I’ll- I’ll be with you to the end of the line.’”

“Yeah. But before that. You said you could make it on your own. And I said you didn’t have to. And I thought you understood that. But you didn’t really ‘cause for months afterwards you wouldn’t let me help with anything, tried living on your own, could barely manage to feed yourself and still said you were fine.”

“I remember.” Steve said but Bucky was on a roll.

“And you kept getting in fights, kept losing your job ‘cause you’d come in with a black eye. You were so goddamn proud you wouldn’t even let me talk about helping you.” Steve didn’t know what to say. He didn’t remember it like that. He just remembered all the small ways Bucky had helped, all the small things Steve had let him do because he knew he couldn’t manage without it. “The thing is, Stevie, you’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“You think you’ve got to be this rock, this perfect good ol’ guy for your poor pal Bucky, who’s having such a tough time of it. But it doesn’t work like that, Rogers. Just because I’m not all there doesn’t mean you have to be extra with-it to balance me out. You’re acting like you’ve got to sort everything out on your own, but the thing is... you don’t have to.”

And it felt like no time had passed. It felt like they were still standing in front of his little empty apartment and his heart was still weak and it still felt like there was no one else in the world that meant as much to him as Bucky, towering over him but looking him dead in the eye. It felt like a dam breaking, like every horrible self-defeating thought and every hopeless moment and every bad day was pushing up against the walls of numbness and false-cheer he’d built up and the cracks were spidering out in every direction.

He wasn’t even sure if he was crying, just knew he was shaking and he couldn’t breathe, sobs caught in his throat. Gently Bucky nudged him farther onto the bed and then onto his side. Then he lay down and curled around Steve, right arm slung around him, pulling him snug against Bucky’s chest. And Steve felt like he was mourning his mother all over again, his mother and the Commandos and all the time he lost. He was mourning all the years Bucky had spent in pain and all the months they’d been back together but not really there for each other, not curled up on one bed comforting each other. Steve mourned every wasted minute. And he mourned for himself, for his pride and his happiness and his hope that had fled when he wasn’t looking.

It took a long time. It felt too long. Steve felt embarrassed before it was over, tried to calm himself but could only wait for the storm to pass. Finally he stopped shaking, loosened his grip on Bucky’s hand which had to have hurt. His breaths went from small and strained, to huge and shaky and finally to something more like even. And then he just lay there, feeling wrung out and exhausted but somehow not quite as empty as he had before, like all the bad stuff had drained out and now he was just filled with clean air.

“Does this mean you’re willing to admit I’m right?” Bucky said finally, breath hot on the back of Steve’s neck.

“Aren’t you always?” Steve said.

“That’s what I’m sayin’! You need to listen to me more.” Steve thought there was more to that line, a few more phrases in their old stock banter but neither of them bothered with the rest. Bucky linked and unlinked his fingers with Steve’s a few times. Then he said, “Sam told me who to call. I just need to know what your schedule looks like for the next few weeks and I can set up an appointment with someone.”

“I can do it myself.” Steve said, trying to conjure up some small amount of annoyance.

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you since Sam says he gave you their numbers weeks ago and you never did anything with them. Whatever, doesn’t matter. I’ll call this afternoon, you don’t even need to get up, just pull up your calendar on your phone for me and I’ll do the rest.” Steve supposed this was as good a time as any to start letting Bucky help him so he grabbed his phone off the bedside table and unlocked it. He showed Bucky his calendar over his shoulder and Bucky made a little affirmative noise and made to roll away. But Steve held on tighter to his hand.

“Just- just a little while longer.” he said and Bucky subsided.

“Okay.” And Steve thought he felt the barest brush of lips at the back of his neck, but he was probably imagining it.

"Thanks." he said eventually, letting Bucky go. And afterwards it was easier to get out of bed and at least have some breakfast before curling up back on the couch, eyes closed and pretending he was invisible. It was easier to hear Bucky on the phone with the psychiatrist's office, hear him say "Yeah, depression mostly. That's kind of what you're supposed to figure out." It was easier to move his legs so Bucky could sit with him after he was finished, it was just, easier.

Actually going to the appointment two weeks later was still hard. He had taken up Sam's offer to drive him because he was so nervous he wasn't sure he could focus on anything else, and because it was nice to have someone waiting with him in the lobby as his brain tried to convince himself that none of this was necessary, he wasn't really crazy, he'd be fine. And then he got into the room and there was a couch just like all the tv shows and he had to fill out these little forms. He hated them immediately. ‘How crappy do you feel on a scale from one to five?’ ‘How many times in the last two weeks have you felt like jumping out a plane without a parachute?’ As a test it felt by turns way off and too close to the mark. It seemed almost like he had to prove to them that he was crazy enough to warrant help, like maybe they suspected him of faking it.

Actually talking to the doctor wasn't much better. His eyes were too understanding and his nods too quick as though he'd already figured out exactly what Steve was going to say. At the end he talked for a long time about typical and atypical symptoms of PTSD and natural reactions to life adjustments. Steve made another appointment but he knew he was going to get Bucky to call and cancel it for him, there was no way he was going back. He told Sam that afterwards and he accepted it fine.

"Yeah it's always tough at first to find someone you like. But we're not gonna let you off the hook that easy, I've got a few more people for you to try out."

The next psychiatrist was just as bad, with an air of condescension that Steve was probably imagining but which put him off the woman completely. The third one, Dr. Kafka, was better though. She asked questions to better clarify his statements, gently challenged his more negative thoughts and mostly just let him talk. And when he reached the end of the spiel he'd given the others she started summarizing his thoughts back to him, seeing if she had it right and he just nodded and nodded because she got it all.

She said it was too soon to label what exactly he was experiencing but that medication definitely seemed like an option in his case. He explained about his metabolism, if he couldn't get drunk he probably couldn't alter his brain any other way either. She said she was willing to do some special trials and blood tests to confirm or refute that, if medication was something he wanted. He knew Sam wasn't on medication, but he had been for a while when he first got back. And Steve knew a lot of people took medication, that it was necessary and useful for them to have their brain chemistry rebalanced. But the serum would surely have taken care of all that so it was hard to believe that was something he needed. He told Dr. Kafka that and she said she'd have to research more about it and get back to him. But he left feeling hopeful, she didn't say she had all the answers or that she could fix him but the way she listened made him feel less ashamed about needing to talk.

At their next appointment she said she'd consulted with whoever she could get ahold of regarding the serum, academics, scientists and historians alike. There was some disagreement. Some said the records showed the serum had an effect on his strategic thinking and other mental processes. Others said the serum's primary or possibly only affect was physical not mental. She said she thought it was at least worth a shot, if they found medication wasn't viable or he didn't find it helpful they could stop and see what therapy alone could do. But Steve figured it was at least worth trying. The way he felt certainly didn't feel like the way a normal healthy brain was supposed to work. She suggested they try a complement of a few particularly slow to metabolize antidepressants. They did a few trials with the meds, taking blood tests every hour to see how long the medications stayed in his system. With a few tweaks Dr. Kafka said they could get it so he could take a larger than average dose three times a day to achieve effects similar to most patients.

The good part about metabolizing the meds so quickly was that they also kicked in quicker. He started noticing their effects after a few days. It was strange at first. He didn’t wake up feeling happy, didn’t go through his day skipping and whistling a jolly tune. But the little things mattered more. Bucky would smile at something on the tv and Steve would feel warm, feel happy where before he hadn’t felt anything but worry. He would mock Sam for something he’d said and then actually laugh at his own dumb joke. It’d been a long time since he’d laughed. It was like everything was just a bit easier, like he had breathing room.

The longer he was on them the more natural it felt, the more it felt like this was how he was meant to feel. He still felt strange taking a handful of pills at every meal, didn’t try to hide it but didn’t really feel right doing it either. Bucky didn’t say anything but Steve wondered what he thought of it. It was worth the discomfort though, to feel as though maybe things with Bucky weren’t entirely hopeless, to feel more able to just ask on Bucky’s bad days if there was anything he could do to help rather than just sitting helplessly and waiting for Bucky to tell him what he could be doing. Without a mission he had been adrift, no purpose, nothing to ground him but now that felt okay. It felt like maybe just living and helping Bucky and helping himself and training with the Avengers when they were in town was enough for now.

Everything lost its edge of desperation. He could breathe without feeling like he was going to fall apart. Even the way he felt about Bucky was different. He still loved him but it no longer felt like the one good thing in his life, like something he had to hold onto so tightly lest it slip out of his fingers. The things he had made himself do before to keep busy started to be enjoyable. He liked training with the Avengers, liked running with Sam, liked his dance classes. He saw the studio was having a few special sessions on Lindy Hop which he immediately signed up for.

He knew all the moves by sight, had seen people dancing like this for years but it was different doing it for himself, finally being able to swing around his partner and dance all out for an hour without even breathing heavy. He immediately wanted to show off the Buck, but he wanted to make it right. He dug up recordings of Bucky’s favorite songs from back in the day and made a playlist on his iPod. Mostly fast songs, ‘real dancin’ songs’ as Bucky had called them then but there were a few of the slower ones that even Steve had been dragged onto the dance floor for. And he got a suit. Not one of those fancy modern cuts but the kind Bucky would have worn back in the day, looking dapper and suave as could be. When he tried it on he couldn’t help but laugh. Even with the body to back it up it looked strange on him, like he was wearing his dad’s clothing. But he thought Bucky would get a kick out of it. So once he had everything arranged he enlisted Natasha’s help to get Bucky out of the apartment for a little while. He moved all the furniture out of the way to give them some room. Then he got dressed up, slicked back his hair even though it looked ridiculous to him, set out some bourbon which used to be Bucky’s favorite. Natasha texted him from the car that Bucky was on her way up and Steve turned on the first song.

The apartment still basically looked the same. There wasn’t a live band or a bartender or a haze of smoke to make it feel like a real club but somehow as soon as Bucky walked in Steve knew she understood what was happening. She eyed him up and down, let one side of her mouth quirk up at his hair.

“Is that dancing music I hear?” she said, eyebrows raised.

“If you want it to be.” Steve said, suddenly feeling nervous. He still wasn’t as good a dancer as Buck. Fast reflexes weren't the same as the natural grace Bucky had always had. Maybe this was a silly idea.

“I’m in, don’t get me wrong. But you’re jumping the gun. I’m not even dressed for it,” she indicated her yoga pants and loose-fitting pullover. “Turn the music off while I get gussied up, I don’t want to miss anything.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah of course.” Steve said, going over and pausing the music. It felt like a long time waiting for Bucky to come back. She wasn’t wearing her arm today, practicing going outside without it, so getting dressed could take longer.

Finally Bucky came out in a [black cocktail dress](http://waydresses.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/short-petite-dresses.jpg) with [silver-grey detailing](http://www.lilyboutique.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/8/8/88_21_.jpg) and grey pumps. She'd had her hair back in a braid overnight and this morning but she'd let it out so now her hair fell in loose waves around her face. She looked nothing like she had back in the day, too modern and chic, but Steve loved it anyway, loved the smooth sway of her hips and the way her eyelids shimmered with silver eyeshadow. She looked comfortable and beautiful and Steve could feel himself blushing just looking at her.

"Well?" she said, doing a little spin to show off her black stockings and just a glimpse of a garter belt. Steve bit back his inclination to stammer and babble. He walked over and took her hand.

"Still the prettiest dame I've ever seen." he said, loving the little pleased smile Bucky gave in return.

"Alright, Stevie. Let's see what you've got."

So Steve went and turned on the music and off they went. Most of the moves Steve had practiced had to be adapted for a one-armed partner but Steve had kept that in mind when he was learning and already had ideas for alternatives they could try. Some moves had to be thrown out entirely but Bucky didn't seem to mind experimenting a little bit and once they got the hang of it they fell into the rhythm of jiving and spinning just fine.

One song easily slipped into another and it was exhilarating having a partner that could keep up with him without taking a break. That being said, they broke for drinks when the first slow song came on. Steve felt buzzed before the first sip of alcohol. When the next fast song came on they were back at it. Steve didn't know as many moves as he'd have liked so he tried out things he remembered from the old clubs. Lindy was all about improvisation anyway but a couple of times Bucky stopped long enough to show Steve a move she wanted to try. Some of it was more swing or salsa or some other style Steve didn't even know the name of but Bucky was clearly enjoying having a partner to finally show her new dance moves to. They moved quick and fluid, anticipating each other's movements almost like they were sparring. Finally even their super-powered bodies started to sweat just in time for the last few slower tempo songs to start.

Without thinking about it Steve gathered Bucky to him, hands on her hips. Bucky slid her arm over his shoulder and looked him in the eye. This close the height difference was negligible and they were almost nose-to-nose. Steve could feel her heart rate slowing where they were pressed together. After the first song she rested her head on his shoulder as they swayed in time.

It was so like those evenings a lifetime ago where they'd danced barefoot to the radio in their tiny apartment. And yet so different. It felt strange to be the taller one, to not feel dwarfed by Bucky's body against his. The music was the same, the feeling was the same but they were so different. Steve wondered if Bucky was remembering the same things, opened his mouth to ask. But then he closed it again. If she didn't remember he didn't want to make a big deal about it. They didn't really talk about the past unless Bucky brought it up. She must had sensed that he was going to say something because she pulled back enough to look at him.

"What?" she said, smiling like she already knew the answer. She looked so different but that cocky smile was exactly the same and before Steve could think about it he was leaning forward and kissing her.

* * *

It was hard when Bucky was having trouble sleeping to distinguish between the days. He kept track but mentally everything jumbled together as one day slid into the next with periods of slightly less movement but not really any rest. Still when he heard the first shufflings from Steve’s room interrupt the quiet of dawn he always forced himself to pack away the nightmares and the memories that kept him awake. And then he would think: who am I today? He would shove away the voice that asked: ‘what are you today? Every day? What are you but a coward and a killer?’ That was a nighttime voice and the sound of coffee percolating reminded Bucky that it was day. A new day. Who was he today?

Sometimes the choice was almost arbitrary. A kind of, ‘haven’t done that for a while’ decision. Or a ‘let’s make the effort today because maybe I won’t feel quite so crappy in ballet flats as I do in combat boots.’ Other days the feeling was more strong. It felt like anything but one set of pronouns would be a lie, would be wrong and ill-fitting. Today was more of the former. More hopeful than forceful. Yes, she’d be a woman today. She’d take off her arm and leave behind the dark thoughts and try to be happy. She didn’t really feel up to getting really dressed properly though. That was happening more these days. Back in the 40s she’d felt wrong on days when she’d felt like a woman but had to present as a man. Now it wasn’t so simple. She could still be a woman in the worn sweatshirt she’d been wearing for days. Steve would still use the right pronouns and she would still know she was a woman with messy hair and no makeup. So she changed from the sweats she’d ‘slept’ in to yoga pants but otherwise nothing changed but the pronouns on the door.

After Steve’s run, halfway through breakfast Bucky knew something was up. She asked Steve what he was planning on doing for the rest of the day and he gave this funny kind of shrug.

“Dunno. Hadn’t really thought about it.” There wasn’t anything unusual about that, but there was something about the way he said it. Steve was a god awful liar. She narrowed her eyes at him while he looked steadfastly at his coffee. Something was definitely afoot.

Just as they finished with the dishes Nat texted to say she was on her way up. That was one of the things they’d been trying to help with the anxiety. The first sound of footsteps in the hall wasn’t so scary if she expected someone. Nat then proceeded to insist that she needed her curling iron back and it was about time Bucky got one of her own anyway.

“Besides, you’ve been complaining that you need hairspray for any ‘real’ hairdos.” She even did the finger quotes because she thought she was cute. Bucky just glanced between her and Steve where he was curled up on the couch with a book. Nat was a much better liar but Bucky was alert now and although Nat sometimes did cave and agree to go shopping with Bucky this was not a coincidence. She weighed her curiosity against her agoraphobia and decided she felt up to going out. She wasn’t really a fan of surprises on principle but she trusted Steve and Natasha. And besides, Nat’s curler was terrible, she really did need a better one.

They went to a salon Pepper recommended which had a beauty supply shop attached. Natasha mostly milled around picking up the most brightly colored bottles and getting a tangerine bubble bath. She didn’t really care for a lot of beauty things that Bucky was into but she had explained that she had a distinct self-care routine that she went through when she needed it involving a long bath, bubbles, candles, a book and a state-of-the-art security system. It was the kind of routine Bucky could get behind and she’d tried it a couple times with good effects. This time she was focused on hair though. Bucky got some mousse, some hairspray and curling gel and a few other things she’d heard mentioned in the hairstyle videos she’d bookmarked. She also got a proper ceramic curler that was meant to be much easier on her hair. Natasha stalled a little bit, no doubt waiting for the okay from Steve before driving them back to the apartment. The whole way back she was trying to guess what Steve was up to but it'd been so long since someone had given her a pleasant surprise that she didn't really know what to expect. By now Nat definitely knew Bucky was on to them because she stopped at the curb and gave her a shit-eating smile.

"You going to tell me what to expect?" Bucky asked. Natasha raised one eyebrow and shook her head. "But you would tell me if it was something bad, right?" She didn't think Steve would go to this trouble to break bad news to her but she wasn't completely sure.

"Yeah, bad news is Steve's a sappy loser. And you'll probably love it now get out of my car."

"Love you too." Bucky said in Russian, smiling as she closed the car door behind her. She didn't watch but she knew Nat rolled her eyes before pulling smoothly back into traffic. She felt reassured as she made her way up to the apartment. As she reached the landing she heard a familiar tune and any lingering worry disappeared.

The first thing she did when she walked in was assess the apartment for danger. The furniture was moved but it didn't look like there'd been a fight and the alarm system gave the reassuring beep that meant it was armed and an authorized person had just entered the apartment. The next thing she noticed was Steve. He was wearing an old fashioned suit. She wasn't as up on men's fashion as women's but she recognized that style from working in her uncle's shop a lifetime ago. His hair was slicked back and he was standing just inside the door with his hands behind his back. He looked fantastic, like every fantasy suitor she'd dreamed up as a kid. The hair was a little much, she preferred it loose but otherwise it was a good look on Steve. The music, the furniture, the suit, she knew what was going on here.

"Is that dancing music I hear?" she said and the shy look on Steve's face was answer enough.

"If you want it to be." he said. She knew if she said no he'd immediately abandon the idea and not bring it up again. She didn't want that.

“I’m in, don’t get me wrong. But you’re jumping the gun. I’m not even dressed for it." The relaxed look was fine some days but she felt massively underdressed next to Steve. "Turn the music off while I get gussied up, I don’t want to miss anything.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah of course.” he said as she retreated to her room. She only had a few dresses fancy enough for this and none in a style matching Steve's. She ruled out anything she needed help getting into and anything that would restrict her movement. That left a little black and grey number. She still had to contort a bit to get the zipper all the way up but she managed. Next were the stockings, a garter belt she hadn't had a chance to try yet and her shoes. Makeup was easy these days, she knew the rhythm of it, knew the steps like its own little dance. She was ready pretty quickly if she said so herself. She thought about trying out her new curler but it would take too long so she just let out her braid and tried to ignore how messy the waves were.

It was gratifying when she came back into the living room to see how Steve looked at her. She spun a bit to show off.

“Well?” she asked because she wanted to hear him say it.   

“Still the prettiest dame I’ve ever seen.” he said and she couldn’t help but smile because she knew he meant it as much now as he had so many years ago.

“Alright, Stevie. Let's see what you've got." Steve turned on the music and she took his hand.

It was strange at first, letting Steve lead. The last time she’d heard these songs and danced this way she’d been a good gentleman leading along a lady. She’d thought about this back then, wished there was someone who could spin her or lift her and make her feel like she weighed nothing at all. Back then Steve couldn’t even keep up, much less try the moves they were doing now. But it was freeing. Her clothes, her makeup and her partner, everything felt so perfect, like she was exactly who she was meant to be in that moment, completely and truly herself.

At one point she noticed the bourbon Steve had set out on the counter and she almost laughed. Neither of them could get drunk but it was a nice touch and when one song faded into a slower melody she led Steve over to have a few drinks. It was better quality than what they could afford in the 40s but it still felt familiar, everything about this scenario was an odd combination of new and old that she found she quite liked. The next song came on and she dragged him back to the makeshift dance floor. She wanted to get creative. She’d been learning all she could about the different dance styles that had been popular in the last 70 years. She’d practiced as many moves as she could, not to mention perfecting them in high heels. But some things you really couldn’t do without a partner. So she walked Steve through a couple moves she wanted to try and he caught on quickly although his movements were a little stiffer than she would have liked. He still acted like that skinny kid who was going to trip over his own feet and bump into his date any minute.

The music finally went soft and slow and Steve pulled her close to him. She only noticed how hard she’d been breathing and how fast her heart was beating as it began to slow down. But being so close to Steve was its own kind of thrill. She just watched him for the first song, memorizing his face, thinking all kinds of sickly sweet things. It felt like she was pried open, like the strange ghostly past had pulled away her barriers and here she was just a girl in love with her best friend. Eventually it got too much and she had to look away. She leaned her head on Steve’s shoulder and relaxed completely into his arms. They swayed in time to the music and yes, this was how they used to dance. She closed her eyes and could almost see their old apartment moving around them, hear the tinny music over the radio and feel the floorboards give slightly under her feet. It was just like the first time they’d kissed.

She heard the slight intake of breath that meant Steve was going to say something. Probably something sappy that she would laugh at but secretly love. That was how things went with the two of them. But then he said nothing.

“What?” she asked finally, pulling back so she could look at him. And for just a moment he looked… blown away, face open and honest and absolutely bowled over. Then he leaned forward and kissed her.

It was perfect. His hand came up to cup the back of her head and his lips were soft against hers. It felt like coming home. Like everything she wanted was right here.

But then she came back to herself. She knew why this was a bad idea. Knew things couldn't, shouldn't go back to the way things were before. She didn't think of herself as two people anymore, as a woman and a man separately but as a single person whose gender changed. She and Steve had only worked because Steve had thought of it as she had. He'd been a straight man sleeping with a woman but that didn't work anymore, she wouldn't try to pry herself apart for him.

All the reasons flashed through her mind in an instant. And for just a moment longer she kissed him, holding onto this closeness because she knew she had to ruin it.

"Steve." she said, pulling away. But then she fell short, how could she explain. "I can't- I don't want to do that. I mean, I do but it doesn't-"

She watched Steve's face. The expression changed so quickly she couldn't read it. Eventually it settled into something appalled.

"God, Bucky I'm sorry. I- I didn't mean to do that. I never meant to pressure you. Of course if you don't want to do that we don't have to, I didn't mean to put you on the spot." And that was so Steve her face twisted into a wry smile against her better judgement.

"Of course I fucking wanted you to do it. You're so dumb. I want to, it's just I- it's complicated." Now his face flickered again from hope to confusion.

"What does that mean?" he said and she sighed. Being so close to him felt wrong now. She went over to where the couch was pushed up against the wall and sat down. Steve immediately sat next to her, but with enough space that they weren't touching. "Buck, what does that mean?" She rubbed her hand over her face.

"I'm a nonbinary person, Steve. I'm me all the time, gender's just the different way I express it." Now Steve looked more confused.

"Okay? I mean that's great that you want to tell me about that stuff. But, I mean I'd kind of guessed you weren't cis. And I don't really see what that has to do with, you know, us?" She felt tired and stressed and wished they could go back to kissing. It was like Steve was being purposely obtuse.

"Because you're straight?" she said sharply, wanting this conversation over, "And I may be a woman sometimes but I'm nonbinary all the time and I can't be with you just when you happen to be attracted to the gender I am right then."

He was shaking his head. And she really didn't not want to argue about this, didn't want him to try and convince her that this could work because she was worried she might listen. But what he said wasn't what she expected at all.

"I'm not straight." Now it was her turn to be confused.

"What?"

“I’m really, really not straight. I mean,” he swallowed, looked at his hands, “I’ve been attracted to you since, god forever? Back then I thought something was wrong with me for wanting you, girl or boy. But now, I’m attracted to you all the time, Buck. I just, it was a long time ago but at the time you said you weren’t queer so I thought-”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say. She’d never bought into the all-American perfect national icon persona Steve used sometimes. But she’d also never imagined Steve could be anything but straight, anything but- it was a revelation. Her mind caught up with everything he’d said. “Yeah, at the time I didn’t think I was queer. You kind of proved me wrong.”

“Yeah?” Steve said, expression soft and a tiny smile pulling at his mouth. She just stared at him for a second, trying to wrap her mind around this new information, this new possibility.

“So, you really want to do… this, with me?” And she could see the answer on his face but she didn’t let him get the words out, she just spoke more quickly. “I mean, I’m kind of a mess, Rogers. In case you hadn’t noticed. Not, I mean it’s great that you’re fine with the gender thing. But we can’t just pick up where we left off, I’m not the same, I’m not-” She wanted to say ‘I’m not him, I’m not the Bucky Barnes you knew back then’ but it wasn’t that simple. She was sometimes. At first it had been hard, it had been work and practice and studied nonchalance, but now it was just… sometimes she felt more at ease and her accent came out and her shoulders loosened and she acted like she had back then. And other times she didn’t feel that way, acted differently.

Natasha, if you could get her to talk long enough, got pretty philosophical. She would talk about the meaning of truth and the impossibility of absolutes and the intrinsically artificial and constructed nature of reality and consciousness and personality. Honestly, Bucky couldn’t always keep up with her when she got like that. But some of it had sunk in. And the thing was, no one was just one person. They changed over time, and depending on who they were speaking to, and depending on their mood and depending on all sorts of things. None of those versions of themselves were lies, were somehow less them than the others. It was just, people contain multitudes or some shit like that. And for Bucky that meant that she both was and wasn’t the same person she used to be. And maybe that was okay.

Steve must have realized she’d kind of checked out. Because when she refocused on his face he was just watching her, half-amused, half-exasperated.

“Were you thinking about how dumb you sounded.” he said, “Because that was what I was thinking about. I mean, in case you hadn’t noticed I’m pretty messed up too. And I don’t, well I don’t think anyone has to be 100% with it in order to have a relationship. I don’t think it works like that.” She didn’t know how to say that it didn’t matter what worked for other people, it didn’t matter how messed up Steve was because at the end of the day he was still Steve and she was still a killer. But something must have shown on her face because Steve took her hands in his. “Bucky, I’m not going to convince you to be with me if you don’t want to. But if you do want to and you don’t think you deserve it, I’m going to say that’s bullshit. And the thing is, whatever you decide, I love you and I want to be with you, now, never, whenever. You’re it for me. I want this if you do.”

Maybe it was selfish, maybe it was too easy but Bucky couldn’t say no to exactly what she wanted when he was sitting there telling her she could have it.

“I do.” she said and this time she was the one to lean forward and kiss him. And this time it felt like the kind of perfect she could hold on to.

* * *

Most of the time, fame in the 21st century was a mystery to Steve. He didn’t understand how you could look at someone and not see them as a person, just see them as a flat persona they played for the press and think that was all there was. He didn’t understand hero worship or paparazzi or why people asked his opinion on things that clearly had nothing to do with him like reproductive rights. But at the same time, Steve was friends with a lot of famous and well-respected people. Tony had a reputation to rival Captain America’s, although of a very different kind. Since the SHIELD leak Natasha was a well known and much demonized figure even if she managed to keep out of the press most days. Thor was a literal alien living (sometimes) on earth and no one was ever getting over that. Within the Air Force Colonel Rhodes was revered almost universally as either a superior officer or a superhero, or both. Most of the people Steve knew were extraordinary in one way or another and when they were all gathered together in tuxes and ball gowns, perfectly primped yet effortlessly relaxed it was easy to be a little awed by them.

Steve, on the other hand, felt like he was about to rip his dress shirt and his collar was too tight and he knew he was sweating. Natasha had assured him that his suit was the right size but he had a sneaking suspicion that she’d been lying and everyone else was backing her up because they wanted to see him in tight clothes. He couldn’t prove anything though, so he just sipped his champagne and glanced at the giant clock projected on the wall. At least with a New Year’s Eve party it was easy to know how long you had to stay. Couldn’t very well duck out before midnight, but any time after that was fair game Steve assumed. He felt a hand pluck the glass out of his hand and immediately relaxed. Only one person could make it look easy to remove something from his death grip.

Bucky didn’t look quite as relaxed as the other partygoers. It wasn’t too noticeable but the muscles around his eyes were tense and he stood like any second he could fall into a fighting stance. He was wearing his arm and a tux and he looked gorgeous but Steve thought he looked nicer when he was relaxed. Still, this was a big step for him, an exposure exercise he’d been working towards with his therapist for months. He wasn’t at ease, but just the fact that he was here was pretty amazing.

“I thought you were going to get another drink?” Steve asked, eyeing his stolen champagne.

“I did. But then I drank it before I got back over here so…” He shrugged with tense shoulders.

“You know, I don’t think drinking actually helps with nerves if you never even get tipsy.”

"Ever heard of the Placebo effect, Steve. I'm pretty sure most of the crap the doctors gave you when you were sick as a kid did as much good as a sugar pill." Steve smiled. Bucky was probably right. Medicine had come a long way since he had needed it last.

It took another two drinks before Bucky could be prevailed upon to let the champagne go and keep his right hand busy by holding Steve instead. Steve entwined their fingers but left the grip light, didn't want to make Bucky feel trapped but Bucky just squeezed hard enough to cut off circulation and said nothing. One at a time Sam and Natasha wandered back in their direction and Bucky relaxed slightly. They'd both promised to walk the line between “hovering” and “checking up occasionally” and so far they were doing a good job. Sam and Bucky were busy talking about the merits of tuxedos over dress uniforms and Nat was grilling Steve on his and Bucky's plan for a summer road trip that he'd made the mistake of telling her about. They were so caught up in their conversations that they didn't even notice the time until the countdown started. The sudden influx of noise made Bucky tense up but Steve gently rubbed circles on the back of Bucky's hand with his thumb. Sam made some over the top gesture as he asked for the pleasure of a New Years kiss from Nat even though Steve was sure they'd already discussed and decided this. Still Natasha gratuitous, all fake grandeur, deigned to accept and then threw her arms around Sam's shoulders as the countdown hit six.

Steve turned to Bucky and saw less worry than he'd feared. In fact Bucky was smiling a little as he gently, almost hesitantly cupped the back of Steve's head with his left hand.

"Guess what?" Bucky said in the last few seconds of the year. And then there was a roar of "Happy New Year" and they were kissing, light and sweet and joyful.

"What?" Steve asked, lips still brushing as he spoke.

"We made it." And Steve knew exactly what he meant. Through a lifetime together and a lifetime apart, and now through another year of clawing their way back to themselves. They'd done it. And they could keep on doing it.

* * *

Bucky was glad they didn't stay much longer after the ball dropped. Ducked out the back way to avoid the cameras out front and took Steve's bike back to the apartment even though traffic was awful. Getting back home was nice. They hadn't really done anything for the holidays but they'd put up lights around the windows to brighten the dark winter days. It made coming home to an empty but still warmly lit apartment seem a lot better. Bucky could feel himself relax as he checked the alarm and locked the doors. Here he was safe. But he’d done it, he’d made himself go and he hadn’t drop kicked Tony when he’d unexpectedly clapped Bucky on the back so he was pretty proud of himself. He could tell from the way Steve took his face in his hands and kissed Bucky’s forehead and then his mouth that Steve was proud too.

“God, shut up, you punk.” he said, shoving him away when he tried to peck kisses on Bucky’s nose and his eyelids.

“Think your hearing might be going, jerk, I didn’t say a word.” Steve said.

“No, but I can hear every sappy word you’re thinking and it’s giving me cavities, so fuck off.” Steve was distracted from his response by pulling off his bowtie and unbuttoning his collar. He looked so relieved that Bucky had to laugh.

“Shut up.” Steve said, unbuttoning the rest of his dress shirt after shedding his jacket on the couch. “I swear to god everyone’s in league against me wearing properly fitting clothes.”

“Uh-uh, sounding a little paranoid there, Rogers. Pretty sure that’s my line.” Bucky joked.

“Not lately.” Steve said over his shoulder as he went into their bedroom. And it was true. Bucky had been doing a lot better recently. He’d been working on going out more, sometimes wearing the arm, sometimes without it. His arm. That was another thing he’d been working on. The way he got his left arm was terrible and he’d never be reconciled to the things he’d done with it. But it was his now and his therapist had been helping him adjust to the idea that it could be a part of him if he wanted it to be. He still wasn’t sure what he wanted, but he was trying some things out. Trying to think of the arm as his, at least while he was wearing it.

He followed Steve into the bedroom where he was lying on the bed, evidently having thrown himself backwards after he finally got out of his clothes and now he was just luxuriating in the freedom of movement. Bucky had to pause a minute in the doorway to both appreciate the view and stifle a laugh. Steve had clearly hated the party as much as he had, if for different reasons. Bucky get undressed more slowly as Steve watched through half-open eyes.

“Keeping your arm on?” he asked when Bucky was naked.

“Thinking about it.” Bucky said, “But it takes so long to warm up, I don’t really want to sleep with it on and you look like you’re about to conk out.” Which of course triggered the ol’ Rogers tendency to be contrary.

“Nope.” he said, sitting up. “Nah, wide awake. I may be in my 90s but I assure you I’m not above fucking in the wee hours of the morning. And it does seem like the right way to welcome in a new year.”

“You think?” Bucky said, walking forward so he was standing between Steve’s knees and he could run a hand through his hair. He was growing it out a little and Bucky liked the look.

“Yeah, I think.” he said, resting his hand on Bucky’s hips. Bucky leaned down and kissed him. He got so caught up in the feel of lips and tongues and teeth that he didn't notice at first that he was gripping Steve's shoulder with his left hand. He let go immediately. The arm was useful but he wasn't sure he liked the idea of touching Steve with it.

But then Steve was guiding Bucky's hands around his shoulders and pulling on Bucky's hips. Bucky followed obediently as they collapsed back onto the bed. Then there was a bit of an awkward shuffle upwards so they were situated in the centre of the mattress, Bucky straddling Steve and both of them breathing the same air. They fell into another kiss, slow and heated and messy. Neither of them were in a rush but they were both engaged, sliding against each other to get friction on their rapidly hardening cocks. They could get off like that, had done many times but Bucky broke away from kissing long enough to make eye contact and yeah, it was New Years. They had to step it up a notch. So Bucky ground down on Steve's cock once more and then shuffled over to get lube out of the bedside table.

"Any preference?" he asked, settling back down over Steve. They'd tried a little bit of everything they could think of by now, and nothing had really been a no, just degrees of yes.

"Hmm," Steve said, grinding up against Bucky's ass. "I can't think of anything. I'm just lying here trying to think," he thrust up again. "Nah, nothing's coming to me."

"You'd better believe there's not gonna be any coming if you keep up that coy attitude, Stevie." he said slipping down and taking Steve into his mouth. Bucky had found nothing was quite as good at getting Steve to shut up and pay attention as a blowjob. And Bucky kind of loved doing it, loved the feel of Steve's weight on his tongue, loved slowly working himself further and further down the shaft. He pulled back to tongue at the slit and Steve groaned. Bucky looked up and Steve met his eyes, body tensed trying not to move.

"Buck." he got out although his voice sounded strained. Then Bucky ducked back down again and sucked hard until Steve whined. "Wait, wait." Bucky stopped. "I want you to ride me." Steve gasped.

"Hmm, I don't know," Bucky said, tapping Steve's hipbone. "I'm pretty comfortable right here." But he started moving before the words even made it all the way out of his mouth and by the time he finished he was saying them directly into Steve's mouth.

"Mmhmm." Steve murmured between kisses. "Convincing." He went for the bottle of lube that had been abandoned next to them. Steve slicked three fingers and moved to stroke Bucky's hole with one. Bucky never got over that first tentative touch, how sensitive he felt, that sudden surge of 'yes, right there'. Steve gently pushed one finger inside and Bucky moved back into it, already wanting more. But Steve was determined to go slow, working the first finger in deep and thrusting a few times before trying the second. Then there was the stretch as Steve scissored his fingers open. Bucky mouthed at Steve’s throat, worrying at the skin with his teeth. After a few minutes Steve pressed a kiss to Bucky’s temple as he pushed in his third finger. And then they kissed for a long time, Bucky’s hands in Steve’s hair as he fucked himself back onto Steve’s fingers. Every time Steve grazed his prostate Bucky clenched his hands, pulling at Steve’s hair just to hear him groan.

“Okay, okay, fuck.” Bucky said, finally pulling back. Enough was enough, he wanted Steve’s cock inside him now. He slicked Steve’s dick. One of the perks of being super soldiers was condoms were kind of unnecessary. He settled himself, Steve’s hands on his knees as he guided Steve’s cock with his right hand. Bucky sunk down, hissing at the feeling of being so full. He paused, let himself get used to the feeling for a moment before he began to move. Bucky closed his eyes, rocking his hips down in slow undulating waves. He spread his hands wide on Steve’s chest and despite himself he looked down and found he kind of liked the look of flesh and metal against golden skin. He adjusted the angle a little until every downward thrust brushed his prostate. Steve’s eyes were closed and his face was tense yet serene, hands resting on Bucky’s thighs.

“You better not be falling asleep old man.” Bucky panted and Steve responded with a choked laugh.

“Never.” he said, honest and earnest. He opened his eyes and Bucky saw his gaze take in Bucky’s body from his bobbing cock to his no doubt sex-mussed hair. But then their eyes met and everything else melted away, it was just Steve’s eyes and Steve’s panted breaths and Steve’s cock buried in him.

Bucky kept the pace slow and measured as long as he could stand it, until Steve was begging and whining with every breath. Finally, he started to thrust properly, short brutal strokes. And Steve’s hands moved to his hips, pulling him down as Steve fucked up into him.

“That’s it, that’s- ye- yeah, come on, Stevie, yeah.” he said, riding Steve fast and hard. He began to stroke his cock with his right hand and it was shortly joined by Steve’s hand as well, pumping in time with the movement of their hips. Now it was Steve’s turn to talk, a litany of encouragement and praise and “Buck, Bucky, please baby.” Bucky could feel his orgasm encroaching with every stroke and thrust and he wanted to keep going, wanted this to last forever but he also wanted to come so badly. The soft murmur of Steve’s voice finally got to him and he came with a cry as pleasure washed over him. His movements went erratic and sloppy as he rode out the aftershocks and Steve gave one final pump of his cock before letting go. Bucky was still for a moment, breaths ragged but body relaxed. Finally he looked back at Steve through his lashes.

“Well?” he said, giving a lazy rock of his hips on Steve’s still hard cock. Steve grinned and effortlessly flipped them over.

“Well indeed.” Steve whispered, guiding himself back into Bucky and beginning to thrust quick and brutal. Bucky just melted into the bed, happy and sated. They kissed deep and messy and Steve moaned into his mouth as he came. After, Steve slowed and eventually stopped but stayed inside Bucky as they continued to kiss.

“Happy New Year.” Bucky said when they eventually broke off to breathe.

“I think I can get behind celebratory sex. We should celebrate more. When’s President’s Day?” Steve asked, finally pulling out and going into the bathroom for a washcloth.

“You don’t know?” Bucky said in a faux-scandalized tone. “I think they take away your America’s #1 Fan jersey for that.” Steve casually flipped him off and went back to cleaning them up. Bucky disengaged the arm and made Steve get up again to lock it in the safe. Then they turned off the bedside light and curled up under the covers, Bucky’s chest to Steve’s back. “I love you.” he said into the silence. He didn’t say it as often as Steve. It still felt too huge and too true and too much to say out loud a lot of the time. But it was true.

“I love you too.” Steve said, quiet and emphatic, daring him to doubt it. But he didn’t. Bucky knew that like he knew almost nothing else. He knew Steve and he knew they had each other and things were still hard. Hell, things were probably always going to be hard. But they were getting better and no matter what happened they had this. And right now, Bucky couldn’t think of a single thing he wanted more.

The End


End file.
